I Rise, You Fall
by dreamsingreen
Summary: Redemption was never an option. Luckily for Ronan, his former enemies-turned-reluctant allies would never ask it of him. And now on top of killing Thanos and preventing galactic destruction, he has to put up with a certain Terran's insistent requests for a dance. Ronan/Star-Lord, Ronan/Star-Lord/Gamora, Star-Lord/Gamora
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **So yeaaahh...this is a Ronan/Star Lord fic :o

I've posted what I've written so far to gauge interest and see whether I should continue - if so, the title may change. I hope that everyone (especially Ronan) isn't too egregiously OOC. This first chapter is a lot of introspection from Ronan (mixed with action from the movie) to better flesh out his character for the purposes of this story. I'm only working off of the movie, not the comics yet (though I plan to read the Annihilation series ASAP).

I have no idea if this will work...*backs slowly into a corner* But it was certainly fun to write so far, so I hope it's fun to read^^

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><p>He braced himself as he stepped out of his bath, droplets of Xandarian blood running in rivulets over his arms, legs and torso, staining his skin only a slightly darker blue.<p>

Ronan almost wished that the contrast was starker, more apparent. He executed each of these creatures himself, had drank in their screams and laughed as he ended their lives with blade or hammer or his own hands.

(And he'd also watched the light fade from their terrified eyes as their pleas burned his ears, and he'd sometimes – _sometimes_ – been tempted to turn back. To delay justice for just one more day, and to go and rest. To close his eyes without another featureless ghost following him in the darkness. He couldn't remember their faces, anymore.)

But justice was never painless for the accused or the accuser, for the criminal or the executioner. Ronan could be described as all of those things and more, and to cower from his duty would be to deny everything that he was made to be.

His attendants rushed to meet him, beginning his morning ritual by anointing his head with water and toweling the excess moisture from his skin. He drew in a deep breath unconsciously and held it as fresh ash was sprinkled over his bare skin, the heat a sharp contrast to the frigid air of his bathing chamber.

He stared forward unblinkingly as one of the women dipped her fingers in the ceremonial, tarlike paint and began to apply it underneath his eyes. He didn't flinch, though it burned far more than the ash as she drew it over his skin, recreating the ancient patterns of his ancestors.

There was no escaping pain as an Accuser – even if one was never injured in battle, a near impossibility, the judgment of others was the first thing an Accuser woke up to deliver each morning, and the last thing on his mind before he closed his eyes to sleep.

_Sleep._ He hadn't slept – truly slept – in weeks. Years. In a lifetime. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders like the weight of a solar system, but he could always rely on the fire to burn it away – for a short time.

The discomfort of the ritual hadn't lessened over the years since he'd assumed his position – rather, he'd grown stronger as he endured it, as was intended by his forefathers_._ And he would use that strength to enact justice for his murdered people. For his allies and his enemies, his superiors and servants. For his father and his mother. For their fathers and mothers before them, a line of grief stretching back a thousand years.

His attendants finished adjusting his helmet and his transformation was complete, all lingering weakness burned away for another day. He exhaled the last of his doubts and breathed in strength and purpose once more.

Ronan reached for his weapon, circling his latest capture and reciting the speech he'd given a thousand times to the accused, in one form or another.

"You will _never _rule Xandar," the pilot spat, fearful but still defiant, and Ronan wanted to laugh at the man's denial even in the face of death. Rule the source of a disease? It was impossible. There was only one course of action he could take with the Xandarians.

"No," he laughed softly, raising his hammer and reminding himself to memorize the sheer terror in his victim's eyes. (He would forget the face soon, anyway.)

"I will _cure it!"_

A loud crunch, and then blood ran down a series of pipes, filling his bath slightly higher for the next time. Ronan frowned as he looked over the shattered remains of the Xandarian's skull at the dwindling level of liquid. He needed to figure out a more efficient system than this – killing dozens of these pilots one by one just to take a bath was getting tedious.

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><p>He spoke carefully, struggling to keep his tone servile and inoffensive as he explained his delay in retrieving the Orb to Thanos – or rather, to his jeering spokesman. Considering its value, it was only expected that outlaws and thieves such as this…<em>Star Lord <em>would also attempt to procure it for their own use.

And now Gamora had gone rogue, which was an unfortunate setback that would win him no favor with Thanos.

Regardless…he would crush all of his obstacles one by one, ever-patient and merciless, administering the justice of his father, and his father before him. All of these trivialities – Thanos, the Orb, and Gamora's betrayal – all of these distractions were secondary to his true purpose.

But there was one distraction he couldn't stomach any longer – the wheezing voice of Thanos' slippery, repulsive spokesman. Ronan pointed his weapon directly at the creature's head, smiling to himself as the concussive force of the blast twisted its neck clean around.

At least now Thanos could make his threats and insults face to face.

"If you return again without the Orb, boy," the Titan warned, and Ronan felt a shiver of fear run down his spine unbidden as he averted his eyes, almost regretting his rashness, "I will bathe these stairways in your blood."

"Sounds like a plan, Dad," Nebula quipped, obviously still appalled that he had murdered the Other so casually. There was an arrogance in her bearing from the new power her father had just bestowed her, but also a subtle calculation as she considered him. Even…a grudging admiration.

And Ronan was never one to let an advantage slip by.

_I can use her._

* * *

><p>Miners scattered, darting back to their holes as the <em>Dark Aster <em>landed in the center of Knowhere. Ronan allowed himself a small smile at the play on words, because _Knowhere _was somewhere very important to be if the Orb had indeed been located.

Instead of a greedy informant, however, he was confronted by a massive tattooed figure holding two freshly sharpened, glinting blades up in a challenge.

"You were the one who sent the message?" Ronan inquired as the man screamed at him in fury, accusing him of murdering his wife and daughter during some raid. Ronan had no memory of those particular executions, but given the number of campaigns he'd led recently in search of the Orb, it was probably true.

He turned his back to his accuser and walked back to his ship in contempt, after half-considering killing the man (Drax, he called himself) for wasting his time.

But as expected, the fool was not about to let him go so easily. The warrior charged, attempting to take off his head with a single furious swing of his blade. Ronan sighed as he threw the other man backwards, deciding that although this was a misuse of precious time, he could respect Drax's need to avenge his family. It was in line with the teachings of his own people, after all.

"I don't recall killing your family," Ronan admitted truthfully, preparing to fight, "and I doubt I'll remember killing you, either."

The truth of Drax's claims didn't bother him, and neither did his clumsy attacks. Ronan disarmed the warrior with ease, not even flinching as he allowed the man to punch him repeatedly in the stomach to showcase his own strength.

What _did_ disturb him was the accusation he saw in this man's voice, in his eyes. It was a pain and rage unlike anything Ronan had ever seen, and he had killed (thousands? millions?) of people in the service of Thanos. No, not in the service of Thanos – in the service of _justice_. And now here this outlaw was, accusing _him _of crimes. Accusing _him!_

Ronan let his cold fury fuel his punches as he beat Drax half to death, knocking the air out of the warrior's lungs as he slammed him to the floor, breaking at least several ribs.

He spied a vat of spinal fluid several meters away and grabbed Drax's ankle, dragging him in a bloody trail along the filthy floor. He made sure to walk slowly to give the warrior plenty of time to contemplate his failure before pitching him over the edge.

No more words were needed.

Ronan considered the warrior's still face as bubbles rose to the surface, gradually slowing and stopping as life ebbed away.

He heard Nebula's voice by his ear from a million miles away, informing him of something that was probably important, but he couldn't respond to her immediately. He wasn't watching Drax drown any longer – instead, he was drowning in his own memories of that day so long ago, the day when the Nova Corps stole everything but his life.

He would avenge himself for that day, no matter how many families he had to destroy. None of these toxic moments of doubt – these moments of _weakness – _would ever delay his justice again.

And when he discovered the true nature of the Orb, and felt its power coursing through every atom of his body as he challenged Thanos, a trillion infinities unfolding in the space of a microsecond before his eyes, he realized that _nothing_ could stand in the way of his justice ever again.

Xandar would_ burn._

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><p>The transmission ended and Ronan reveled in his imminent victory, marveling at the newfound power that sizzled through his veins from his contact with the Infinity Stone. It was as if his mind and body had been stretched infinitely far without breaking, but also that everything he was existed along a hairline fracture, threatening to shatter at any time.<p>

Ronan wasn't afraid, because for the first time in his life he could see clearly. The Stone had burned his sinful weakness away in its entirety and replaced it with unyielding power, an infinite resolve and an absolute focus. He wanted to throw his head back and laugh in pure joy, because his old doubts and fears seemed so far away now.

How could he have ever questioned his true purpose, the reasonfor his _very existence?_

_I am __**justice**__. And Xandar, you stand accused._

"After you destroy Xandar, you will kill my father?"

He turned to look at Nebula, having nearly forgotten she was there after severing ties with Thanos.

"Do you dare oppose me?" He challenged, despite seeing the exact opposite intention in her eyes. He could see everything that made her what she was up until that very moment, and everything she could become with Thanos dead all at once, a million threads converging and branching off in different directions.

"You see what he has made me into," she replied, and Ronan couldn't help but wonder if she was speaking to his new knowledge. "If you kill him, I will help you destroy a thousand planets!"

"Xandar is enough," he whispered in acceptance, offering her his hand. As their fingers linked, another lifetime of memories, joys, pains and regrets exploded behind his eyes.

_Oh, Nebula, _he thought mournfully, a swan song of regret rising in him from somewhere very deep and old, _you never realized that I saw you all along._

* * *

><p>There was no more reason to delay his righteous judgment; the <em>Dark Aster<em> was fully armed and equipped for battle against the Nova Corps (not that meager mortal weapons would turn the tide of the battle now), he and Nebula had made their pact, and the Stone's tendrils of power had wound indelibly around his mind, opening his eyes further to the truth.

He could see his path before him beyond the battle raging outside, shining and golden in the light of Justice. If he followed it faithfully to its end, he would see Xandar burn at last, the contamination of its existence purged from the galaxy in a flash of brilliant, cleansing light.

Beautiful. _Inevitable._

_Nothing shall stand in our way, _it whispered in his ear as he sat waiting in the command chamber, the glow at the base of his weapon bathing the room in an unearthly purple light. _We are justice, the force that burns worlds to bitter ash and cleaves the stars through the darkness._

Normally, Ronan would take notice upon hearing a new voice in his head (he had enough of them already) and he would especially question its use of _we, _as destroying Xandar was _his_ choice, _his_ path, and _his_ destiny alone. But those questions never blinked into existence, because all he could see before him was Xandar burning.

And of course, he could feel the ants below him forming a blockade of his ship in a sad attempt to keep him from reaching the surface. A lifetime was long enough to wait for vengeance, and Ronan wasn't willing to be delayed any longer by mere mortals. The Stone rewarded his decision with another surge of power, and Ronan rose to stand by the window in judgment.

"Xandar," he boomed, knowing somehow that his proclamation would be heard by every being on the planet's surface,_ "you stand accused. _Your wretched peace treaty will not save you now. It is the tinder on which you burn!"

The wind tore at his armor as he unleashed a single lethal blast from his hammer, the sheer strength of the attack shattering the molecular bonds between the blockaded ships with ease. He watched breathless as thousands of Nova Corps pilots were crushed one by one in a brilliant flash of golden light. Terror and agony tore through his mind like a shockwave, the force of it jarring and wholly unfamiliar. But instead of breaking him, it only strengthened his resolve.

_There is no joy without despair, and no shadow without the brightest light to illuminate the darkness. This is justice. __**We**__ are justice._

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><p>There were several other distractions on the way down that made for a less than smooth landing. Ronan had lost track of Nebula some time ago amid the chaos outside and <em>inside <em>of his head, and he didn't sense her or any other reinforcements on the way. Yet it appeared that Gamora, the Terran known as Star Lord, Drax and two other strange life forms had torn through his ship's defenses, banding together in a laughable attempt to stop him.

_(To stop __**us **__they are in our way __**cleanse**__ them)_

_The guardians of the galaxy, _Ronan thought contemptuously as he held Drax suspended by his throat, feeling the warrior's windpipe collapsing slowly under his iron grip, _it appears that they are very slow to learn, and just as weak as they are stupid._

Well if these insects were to be his problem, he wouldn't show them mercy a second time. And now that he thought about it, he _did _remember killing this savage's wife and daughter as the Stone gave his memory a gentle push. How they had screamed! It was only fitting that Drax knew of their fate in its entirety before he met them again in the afterlife.

"I was mistaken," Ronan gloated, soaring from the feeling of absolute power that thrummed steadily beneath his skin, "I _do _remember killing your family. Their screams were pitiful –"

If one thing was certain in the universe besides Xandar's imminent destruction, Ronan knew what it was now – getting hit by a spaceship, even a small ravager's ship fucking _hurt like hell._

* * *

><p>He emerged from the wreckage of the <em>Dark Aster <em>like an avenging god, no worse for the wear despite the destruction of his ship and crash landing in the capital. Most of the city had just perished in the crash, and Ronan had rejoiced as he felt the aftershocks of millions of lives being extinguished in an instant. And now he would feel billions more perish as justice was served.

The _guardians of the galaxy _stood helpless beside the remains of their friend's broken body, looking at him with various degrees of defiance (the rodent) and terror (Gamora). He barely saw them, because Xandar's surface was bathed in a brilliant amethyst light, mesmerizing him and pulling him forward_._

Ronan could see a trillion fault lines branching out from where he stood, and striking just one of them would reduce the planet and everything on it to ash.

Words tumbled from his mouth, words of mockery, of vengeance and mercy, punishment and forgiveness. He wasn't angry anymore, he realized as he raised his Universal Weapon, his soul in tune with the billions of others surrounding him. The power surging through him reached its purest heights, and that was when he heard it.

"_Ooh, child, it's gonna get easier. Ooh, child, things'll get brighter_….Listen to these words!"

Ronan stared at the Terran in absolute bewilderment as the multitude of voices in his head fell silent at once, shocked into submission. Besides the absurd _singing_, the Terran called Star Lord was attempting some bizarre movement with his arms and legs. Ronan couldn't tell if he was having a spontaneous seizure or initiating some form of primitive alien mating ritual. He wasn't sure that he _wanted_ to know, but he couldn't tear his eyes away.

"What are you doing?" He asked to quell his curiosity, forgetting to even be indignant at the interruption of his glorious speech.

"Dance off, bro! You and me!" The Terran performed another set of strange movements, evidently intending to subdue him by inviting his lust. Ronan had never seen such a spectacle before at such an inopportune time – Terrans were a strange species, indeed.

"Gamora!"

Star Lord pointed at Ronan's former associate, obviously intending to include her in his mating dance. The assassin simply shook her head in horror, obviously as mortified as he was.

"Subtle, taking it back," Star Lord replied quickly, not deterred in the slightest. Now that the shock was wearing off and the movements weren't having their intended effect, Ronan was starting to remember where he was and why he should be furious.

"What are you _doing?"_ He shouted, only to receive a smug smile from Star Lord.

"Distracting you, you big turd blossom!"

And in a split second's time, everything fell apart. His hopes, dreams and lifelong search for justice were extinguished by a ridiculous combination of chance, low cunning, and a bizarre but strangely enticing Terran mating dance. As Ronan was enveloped in a blinding light, the last thing he heard as he looked into Star Lord's determined amethyst eyes was:

"You said it, bitch. We're the Guardians of the Galaxy."

_It's ironic, _he thought as the Stone's power ripped his body apart, _that he feels the need to resort to that ridiculous mating dance when he has those eyes._

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><p>For countless eons, Ronan drifted in the In-Between, not fully alive but not blessed with death, either. He watched as galaxies were formed from dust clouds before his eyes, and reached out to touch newly-born stars as they exploded into existence, blue and searing hot against his ghostly skin.<p>

Though the marvels of the galaxy were born and died right within his reach, no amount of beauty could shake Ronan's sense of creeping terror. Though his body had been destroyed by the Guardians, he wasn't entirely convinced that his soul was beyond Thanos' reach.

He had heard whispers of the old tales from different corners of the galaxy: of how Thanos had wiped out half of the life in the universe to court his love, Death herself, before the ancient powers had rallied together to stop him.

He'd always scoffed at the stories, because if Thanos was so incredibly powerful, why would he need a Kree Accuser to do his dirty work for him?

_It's only an old myth, _Ronan told himself repeatedly, obsessively, _and only fools would assume that he has the power to control life and death._

But as he drifted further into a dark, unsettlingly familiar corner of space where the light from distant stars flickered and died, the truth became more and more difficult to deny.

One day, in the middle of another bout of mad laughter, Ronan was yanked back into existence like a fish on a reel, gasping for air and clawing desperately at his new, undeniably _real_ skin.

He looked up as soon as his eyes were fully formed, giggling insanely at the irony of it all as Thanos stared down at him from the height of his throne.

"Welcome back, boy," the Titan whispered, "but under very different circumstances than you promised me earlier."

"You will never hear me scream," Ronan shot back defiantly, spitting in the dirt at Thanos' feet.

"We shall see, Accuser," Thanos laughed, a million dark promises in his eyes, "we shall see."


	2. Chapter 2

Wow! Thank you all so much for the kind reviews! :D

Here is chapter 2, I hope it lives up to expectations. Just a warning that there will be references to non-con in the following few chapters. It will not be written graphically but it will be alluded to.

Thanks for reading!

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><p>The Mad Titan's prediction turned out to be the correct one – eventually, Ronan <em>did <em>scream. But for the longest time before he gave Thanos that satisfaction, he remained as silent as the void between stars, stubbornly refusing to show any weakness. He would not give his torturer one more reason to gloat.

Though the agony was constant and oppressive, what was almost worse was the casual degradation, the constant reminders of how and why he'd lost everything. Before the pain began, Thanos had looked down at Ronan from his throne, shaking his head and sighing deeply as if preparing to reprimand a misbehaving pet or a disobedient child.

"Perhaps the fault lies with me," the Titan rumbled as Ronan struggled to his feet naked as the day he was born, his shaky, newborn muscles reluctant to obey his mind's commands to _attack, _to make Thanos _hurt_ and _bleed_ before he inflicted his own pain.

"I've entrusted the most powerful artefacts in the universe to petulant _children_, and expected them to demonstrate some level of skill and competence," Thanos sneered as Ronan shook in fury (and perhaps a _tiny_ _bit_ of fear). "I believed you would conduct yourself better than the Trickster, but it appears that I anticipated betrayal from the wrong errand boy."

"ERRAND BOY! YOU DARE?!" Ronan screamed as his final thread of sanity snapped, his fury at the insult clouding his vision and driving him to take action that he knew was _perhaps_ unwise. He lunged at Thanos on unsteady legs, intending to tear his throat out for the mockery not only of himself, but of the laws and justice of the Kree. Thanos was nothing but a coward who sat safe and content on his throne at the edge of the galaxy, venturing out occasionally to kidnap and torture little girls from primitive worlds. He had no right to comment on the victories and trials of _true_ warriors.

The Titan merely laughed off the clumsy attack, the sound shaking Ronan's entire body as he caught the Accuser by the throat a split second before fingers tore at his jugular. Ronan's eyes bulged as Thanos squeezed with an unforgiving strength, his lungs burning as dark spots gathered at the edges of his vision.

"Know this, _boy," _the Titan whispered, his eyes glinting with an unfathomable cruelty. "I do not forgive incompetence, and I am even less fond of _betrayal_. I will unmake you so completely that your former life will be a distant memory – and soon, even that will fade."

Ronan wheezed as Thanos tossed him contemptuously against one of the moon's large, jagged rocks like swatting away an irritating fly. He heard his bones crunch before he felt the pain, and tasted blood welling up in his mouth from where he bit his tongue.

"To your credit, at least you don't quiver and wail like the Asgardian did," Thanos sneered, "_yet. _But allow me to offer you some valuable advice, boy – you can't wear your pride as armor here. On this rock, you are nothing but _meat_. And soon, you will know it too."

Though sounds were becoming fainter as Ronan started to slip into unconsciousness, he heard Thanos speak quickly in an ancient language, as if calling to someone to attend him.

A few moments later, Ronan felt cold, clammy fingers grip the back of his head, twisting his neck around and forcing him to look up. His stomach dropped as he realized who his blurry attacker was. The Other leered at him, and though its marred features were far from readable in the best of times, Ronan thought he could see hints of cruel vindication in its rotting smile.

"Take him to the cliffs," Thanos commanded. "Keep him alive for now, but inform the Chitauri that they have free reign over the first phase of his punishment."

"At once, master," The Other wheezed as Ronan's eyes closed, its subservient tone dripping with a certain passive-aggressive glee. The Accuser didn't know what was in store for him, but he was grateful for the temporary reprieve of unconsciousness nonetheless.

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><p>The Chitauri, Ronan soon realized, were nearly as repulsive as the Skrulls he had spent almost his entire life killing, and twice as nasty. Ronan regained consciousness as the Other dragged him carelessly by a chain over the jagged terrain, heading towards the towering cliffs in the distance and opening fresh wounds whenever possible. He longed to tear the weak, sickly thing limb from limb as it wheezed along, but couldn't due to the inconvenience of his wrists and ankles being bound with heavy chains. He didn't think he could easily escape them, at least until his broken bones were healed.<p>

The Other was slumped over, battling for air as it lugged Ronan's full weight up the summit, which was swarming with hideous cybernetic insectoid beings. They hissed at him as the Other passed, some of them leaning in so close that he could see his reflection in their pupil-less eyes.

Ronan knew that logically, even as the strongest of Kree warriors, he should be afraid. He had sought to transform his fear and pain into strength and purpose since childhood, letting negative emotions pass through him unless they served a higher function in battle.

Right now there was no battle, and he knew he was about to face a great deal of pain. Yet…as he heard the Other gasp for air, wheezing as if it was suffering from cardiac arrest, he couldn't help but chuckle in genuine mirth. Did Thanos provide no practical form on transportation on his own planet? How _primitive!_ Or did he just order the Other to struggle singlehandedly with a Kree's weight for his own amusement?

The Other halted its summit and hissed angrily, rounding on him with a face twisted even further in displeasure.

Ronan only laughed harder at the image, his sides shaking in mirth as irreverent tears streamed down his cheeks. He wasn't entirely sure _why _he couldn't stop laughing when he'd never indulged in humor before, only that it seemed to be happening to him a lot lately. Once an idea slipped past the fractures in his mind left behind by the Infinity Stone, it was hard for him to let it go.

_Star Lord would find this situation amusing, in his twisted way, _Ronan told himself, thinking of the Terran again without knowing why. _He seems insane enough to find humor in anything._

"_Traitor,"_ the Other snarled menacingly, pressing its boot against Ronan's head and grinding his face into the dirt, "have you gone mad so soon, even before suffering the _first _brunt of His justice? I sincerely hope not. We have _much _more to teach you about pain, _would-be_ Destroyer of Worlds."

The creature leaned in close, its clammy, repulsive fingers connecting with Ronan's face before he could jerk his head away.

(And suddenly, he wasn't a formidable Kree warrior any longer, even one that was defeated and bound. Instead, he was a boy again, watching helplessly as his fellow prisoners of war _(mother, father) _were rounded up and shot like livestock by the victorious Nova Corps invaders, a post-battle blood payment for their fallen pilots. They'd spared the children out of mercy. Ronan had spent his entire life making sure that mercy was their greatest mistake).

_couldn't protect you, too small afraid worthless weakWeakWEAK_

His head felt like it was being split in pieces, pain radiating from where the Other's fingers pressed against his skin. Ronan could hear its satisfied laughter echoing through the fissures of his mind, and realized that _physical_ pain was the least of his concerns with this creature.

When he was finally returned to reality, fresh tears lining his eyes, Ronan realized that he was being dragged again, this time by two ferocious-looking Chitauri warriors. The creatures brought him before a vertical rock face near the edge of the largest cliff, clicking and snarling as they slammed him into the wall and held him there, his toes dangling just off the ground. He couldn't help but notice that he was directly facing the front of Thanos' throne.

Ronan frowned in an uneasy confusion until he saw the Other approach, bearing a hammer and four wicked-looking, spiked nails.

"Unbind it. Hold it still!" The Other commanded, its pitiful, nauseating voice carrying surprisingly strongly over the barren terrain. Ronan growled in fury as another Chitauri warrior moved obediently to unwind his chains. He lunged forward and snapped its neck as soon as his wrists were free, his various broken bones screaming in protest as the Chitauri holding him dropped him into the dirt beside the corpse.

"_Enough,"_ The Other demanded, calling a command in the Chitauri's utterly foreign, insect-like language. "It must be taught its rightful _place."_

Ronan growled helplessly again as two dozen more warriors converged on him from each side, holding assorted weapons and screeching a war cry. His legs were still bound, so any prospect of escape was meaningless. All the same, he was a Kree warrior – if Thanos meant to punish him, Ronan wouldn't accept the judgment without a fight.

The creatures swarmed him without hesitation, sending electricity sizzling through his veins with metal rods and lashing out with vicious kicks. Ronan managed to drag two or three of them down, bashing their skulls in against hard rock before he started to convulse, his body pushed past its limits after a literal resurrection, numerous broken bones from Thanos, heavy blood loss and internal bruising.

He groaned as the spasms ended and the Chitauri hauled him up, pinning him against the rock wall like an insect preserved in amber. They spread his arms and legs to form an X, clicking and spitting as the Other made his way through the mob, bearing his instruments of torture.

The prospect of pain didn't disturb him, Ronan reminded himself as the Other lined the first nail up with his palm, the metal of the hammer glinting in the light of dying stars as he raised it high for the first blow. After all, he had done far worse to hundreds of Xandarian pilots.

The air around him seemed to scream as it was split by the hammer, and Ronan exhaled as the first nail was driven through his hand with an unexpected force. Agony consumed his senses like the flare of a supernova, but he kept his gaze steady, stubbornly refusing to cry out.

_One down. Three to go._

Off in the distance, Ronan swore that he could see Thanos smile.

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm hooked on a feelin'…"<em>

Peter sang along to his favorite mix tape as he attempted the latest moves he saw in that concert hall on Xandar, ignoring Gamora's raised eyebrows and crossed arms. She could put on the _"I'm a galaxy-class assassin and I don't __**dance**__" _act all she wanted, but he was pretty sure that her foot was tapping without her realizing it.

After leaving Xandar to perform more heroic deeds across the galaxy (or, more accurately, to drink, gamble, and steal for about ninety percent of that time), Peter couldn't help but notice that Gamora had become more quiet…reserved…and tense, and he wasn't the only one. He admittedly didn't know her very well yet, and he assumed that she was naturally stoic to some extent. Yet despite her tough outer shell, he thought that he could see hints of apprehension beneath the surface, and during brief, unguarded moments, a bottomless terror.

He wasn't naïve enough to deny the threat that loomed over them, the dark force that had snuck subtly into their daily lives, stealing the joy of spontaneous smiles and ending laughter a little too soon.

It couldn't be easy being the daughter of Thanos – his _former _favorite daughter, no less. That was why he figured Gamora could benefit from something that helped her forget. Music and dancing had always worked for him.

"_I'm high on believin'…_grimace all you want, but I know you can't get enough of these moves." He called to Gamora, taking a few (perfectly choreographed) steps across the room to offer her his hand.

The former assassin narrowed her eyes, no doubt thinking of a thousand ways she could kill him painfully with random objects scattered around the room. But he'd never really bought that look before and besides, if she was going to murder him he had given her five hundred opportunities already.

"C'mon…don't leave me hanging. Besides…even Groot is dancing, and he's still stuck in a pot!"

Gamora turned to look at the small tree in disbelief, her eyes widening as she saw Groot twisting his truck and branches in time to the music, an unabashed grin on his face. Upon watching him, Gamora's features softened into something resembling a smile.

She sighed and took his hand, and he guided her through a simple set of twists and turns, resisting the urge to smile at her uncharacteristic (and totally adorable) clumsiness. He'd waited all day to cheer her up, finally spotting an opportunity when Drax announced that he and Rocket were "visiting the establishment down the road to imbibe more of that confounding liquid" or in normal-people language, going to a bar to get drunk. Hammered. Sloshed. Wrecked.

Gamora's hips brushed against his own as their eyes met and Peter sucked in a deep breath, mentally willing his thoughts not to go_ there. _He could (and would) think about it in detail when he was alone, but not when he was still carrying out his mission of making her smile. Besides, Groot was in the room, and Groot was still like a kid, he supposed? It simply wouldn't be right to get…_hot and bothered_ yet when he really wanted things to work out with this girl.

"I know what you're doing," Gamora muttered as the song ended, and Peter's heart skipped a beat as he put on his most innocent _"I totally wasn't thinking about fucking you here in this very room"_ face.

"You're trying to help me forget," she continued softly, and Peter barely managed not to exhale in relief.

"And I'm grateful…I needed that. But I don't think we'll be able to kill my father with impromptu singing and dancing. A trick like that only works once."

He snorted as he remembered Ronan, that crazy blue dude who had looked at him like he'd never seen anyone dance before in his life. It was probably true, and though Peter would never admit it, he _did _still feel a bit guilty about using one of his favorite songs to kill someone (or, rather, as a distraction until they were able to steal back the Stone and then use _that _to kill Ronan). The guy was a nut job who had to be stopped, but Peter still wished that it had been…_cleaner, _somehow. Quicker.

But if he had to do the same or worse to kill Thanos, he wouldn't hesitate.

"I wouldn't write off the impromptu dancing just yet," he laughed as he held her hands, though there was a steel edge to his voice, barely noticeable except by people who knew him well enough to look for it _(Yondu, and…Yondu)._ "If Thanos comes looking for a fight, he might just find that I have a few more tricks up my sleeve."

"I am Groot," the sapling added softly from the other side of the room, and Peter knew that he understood.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks everyone for the wonderful reviews! Fair warning: This next chapter will be very bleak for Ronan (lots of torture, and non-con will be mentioned). I hope to move back to a lighter tone after this.

Or as Quill would say, "ooh, child, things are gonna get brighter..."

Eventually.

* * *

><p>The Other had promised to show him the true meaning of 'pain,' and so far, nailed to a cliff with festering wounds afflicting his hands and feet and the attentions of the Chitauri never far away, Ronan had to admit that it was a very persuasive teacher.<p>

He hadn't made a sound when he was first nailed up in front of Thanos, but since then the punishment had started to wear on him insidiously, day by day, blow by blow. His hands and feet were certainly infected, probably from some poison put on the nails. The wounds brought him bouts of pain and fever so intense that he began to lose awareness of his surroundings, seeing visions and hearing whispers that couldn't possibly be real. These feverish waking dreams alternated with an ominous numbness and listlessness that couldn't mean anything good, either.

Thanos had given the Chitauri permission to punish Ronan as they wished, and they were only too eager to obey their master's orders. The creatures crowded around him day and night (or whatever counted as 'day' and 'night' in this nightmare dimension) hissing and clicking in their reptilian language. They flayed off strips of his skin with blades and delivered beatings that were far from damaging on their own, but had a certain ferocity that wore on him after time. Eventually large, black bruises began to appear on his skin that took longer than normal to heal.

When the beatings and flaying proved too slow and ineffective, the warriors tormented him with energy whips, hitting him across the face, chest and legs, sending electricity searing through his entire body. They struck him viciously, like he was a disobedient animal that needed to be brought to heel. The whips left angry red gouges on his skin, and Ronan was temporarily blinded in one eye from a lash to the face by an especially vicious warrior.

But he never screamed.

_(not yetnot yet staySTRONG)_

As a blue-skinned Kree and a member of the aristocratic class, Ronan's ancestors had benefited from genetic modifications and improvements designed to create perfect soldiers for the Empire. Due to his ancestry, he healed faster and could endure far more damage than a lesser being like a Xandarian or a human. Even compared with other Kree he was considered strong.

At the same time, he no longer had his armor to protect him or the Infinity Stone to lend him strength. Besides the constant pain, the chill of Thanos' dead Sanctuary seeped past his bare skin and deep into his bones, and he knew that even the brightest, bluest flame would never burn that cold away. Even more disturbing was the effect that his new prison had on his _mind. _

Ronan had been tortured before – that wasn't the issue (well, it wasn't the _only _issue). During his campaigns, he had also traveled to the farthest, darkest reaches of the galaxy and returned alive and well, even stronger than before. But this place was something else entirely. He had no idea how long he'd been held captive here (several weeks, at least – he thought?) but the more time passed, the more the darkness and silence began to dig its claws into his mind, twisting his senses.

It wasn't darkness and silence as he had known them before – it was something more profound than that, something palpable. Even when the Chitauri retired back down the cliff to rest for the day, weary of torturing him, the sudden silence seemed to scream from deep within the Void where Thanos' Sanctuary rested. There was just enough light provided by stars and the distant sun to see, but even that was a false light, a dead light.

Before his betrayal, Ronan had been to Thanos' realm a handful of times. During each visit, he had been more focused on what The Mad Titan would say or do than on his surroundings. He'd never really noticed or dwelt on the deep, inherent _wrongness _of this place, but now he wondered how Nebula and Gamora had managed to survive for so long here.

Thirst bit at his parched throat, and after several cycles of watching the decaying moon pass over the sky, hunger began to knaw at his insides. His broken bones had repaired themselves, but Ronan knew that they hadn't healed correctly since they were never set.

He still hadn't screamed, so at least he'd kept that promise (and he didn't think he was responsible for any cries of pain he might have uttered during a fever). Ronan glared defiantly off in the distance at the back of Thanos' throne, but the Mad Titan never turned around to acknowledge him, even in mockery.

It was almost _insulting_ how little regard he had been paid so far (even an _errand boy _deserved a better punishment than this) but then Ronan realized that it was just like Thanos to pass off his dirty work to other, more capable beings.

(and he _tried_ to forget how Thanos had tossed him around like a rag doll, and how ridiculous that must have looked. His pride certainly depended on him forgetting).

The Other returned shortly after Ronan started cursing and calling out to Thanos during bouts of fever, challenging him to come over and kill him himself. Words like 'useless coward' and 'oversized purple freak' may have been uttered, but again, Ronan didn't hold himself responsible for what he said when the fever started talking.

He didn't think Thanos had sent the Other to punish him – he would never give Ronan the satisfaction of responding in any way to an open challenge. The speaker was probably there of its own volition, and it did _not_ look pleased with Ronan' latest…_verbal lapses._

"_**Slave**__,"_ it screeched, bringing a two-thumbed hand up close to Ronan's forehead (he didn't flinch, no, not at _all)_, "you dare profane your master's name with your unworthy tongue? The next time you speak anything but pleas for a mercy you will never receive, I will have it torn out."

Ronan laughed brazenly, calling the Other's bluff. "Do your worst. But _your_ master might have something to say if you render me incapable of speaking entirely. How would I ever beg?"

The Other hissed in dissatisfaction when it realized why its threat was an empty one, but its face lit up a second later with a sudden, enthusiastic malice.

"We have other ways to stop its worthless words," it smiled, revealing a mouthful of sharp, rotting teeth. "More than one visitor to our realm has benefited from this discipline."

The Other swiped its fingers violently across Ronan's cheek, dredging up screams and pains buried deep in his memory. It called to a nearby warrior in the Chitauri's language, and the creature scampered away to carry out the order. Ronan wondered what they would do to him now – burn his lips together? Whatever the punishment was, the Other certainly seemed gleeful about it.

"Did you think had been punished yet?" It hissed softly, stroking Ronan's cheek as he shuddered despite himself.

"His punishment has only _begun. _Our master allows the Chitauri their spoils, as a reward for their eternal service. But _he_ does not seek to break your body, for he knows that is not what you truly fear."

"Then what?" Ronan snarled, his heart racing despite the fact that he was most certainly _not _afraid of anything, even Thanos. "What else could he possibly-?"

His words stopped short as the warrior returned with two others, carrying a curved, spiked piece of metal. Ronan frowned in confusion until they got closer, his stomach dropping as he saw the straps and pins, and the barbed mouthpiece designed to discourage speech.

A _muzzle._

Burning anger rose in his chest, adding to his humiliation as the Chitauri approached, screeching and spitting. Ronan snarled as two of the monsters forced his head and jaw still, allowing the third to start fastening on the instrument of torture. Ronan could see that the inside of the mask had a line of pins intended to pierce through his lips, in addition to sharp spikes that would agitate his cheeks if he tried to speak, let alone _scream._

"You will never speak your poison again in His presence," the Other gloated as it circled the warriors and their victim. "Look at what your pride has brought you, Accuser – you thought you could defy him, but now you are nothing but his slave."

That word again – _slave. _Ronan thought of his captivity more as kidnapping than slavery, and perhaps the Other simply had a different understanding of the word. Still, its terminology made him uneasy.

He didn't have time to ponder the Other's word choice, however, because the warrior holding the mask started to push the first pin through his lips. Stinging tears gathered in his eyes, and he felt a trickle of blood running down his chin.

The Chitauri were brutal, but they thankfully weren't _slow_. Within a few minutes, they had pierced every pin through his lips and fitted the mask over his mouth and jaw. Ronan could feel blood dripping down his chin onto the rocks below. The world swayed before him, the Other's three identical faces all smiling maliciously.

"Remember the price of your defiance, traitor," it whispered, the last thing that Ronan heard before the world went dark. "Because _he _will take far more than your voice…"

* * *

><p>The dying moon rose and set in the sky, and with its every revolution, Ronan learned more about the true meaning of <em>pain<em>.

_Pain_ wasn't the sensation of his skin parting under blade or whip or teeth, or the white-hot agony that shot through his lips and mouth every time he accidentally moved his jaw.

Pain wasn't his half-delirious thirst or the bottomless hunger that made stabbing pains shoot through his stomach, a sensation of emptiness that never went away.

It wasn't the fire consuming every nerve in his hands and feet, or the dangerously high fever that made him shiver and cry out, seeing his worst nightmares come to life around him as blood tricked down his chin, unnoticed during his screams.

Even the cliff's flesh-eating insects settling into his open wounds and eating their fill wasn't _pain_ – it was just another variation of the tortures that had come before. Ronan was starting to feel like meat on a butcher's block. What happened to his body didn't command much of his notice or respect anymore.

But what hurt – what truly _gutted _him - was the realization that nothing he'd done had made any difference. He had killed millions in his search for vengeance, had made himself into a symbol of justice so unyielding that even his own people no longer recognized him.

The Kree had turned away from that righteous war out of convenience and exhaustion. They were tired of seeing their sons and daughters killed in a conflict that never seemed to end. Ronan could sympathize, having lost almost his entire family to the war. But it was his sworn duty to uphold justice no matter what the consequences were.

So his own people stripped him of his rank and title, exiled him, _abandoned _him, even as they secretly wished he would succeed.

With no one else to turn to he had allied with Thanos, a madman who ordered him to destroy entire planets for no reason but his obsession with death. Those errands had been distractions, and Ronan was ashamed that he never saw it before. One of the so-called "guardians of the galaxy,"Drax, had accused him of murder when they first fought. Ronan hadn't accepted that judgment before, but perhaps it was more accurate than he'd been willing to admit. How had slaughtering savages on a backwater planet helped him deliver justice to Xandar?

Hanging there, nailed to unforgiving rock and learning a new appreciation for pain_,_ Ronan realized that he'd lost his center somewhere in his grief. His need for vengeance had clouded his understanding of what justice truly was.

His father had taught him all about the Law when he was still alive. "You must never falter when you deliver a judgment," he'd told his son firmly but gently, upon finding him in tears after witnessing his first execution. "You must never cower even if they beg. Look at the Accused with pride as you take his life, for you know that the punishment you deliver is just. And with the killing blow, you free him from his sins."

(When the Nova Corps defeated them in battle, his father _had_ begged – not for his own life or his wife's life, but for his son's. After years spent in a POW camp, Ronan wished that he'd never asked at all).

But Xandar lived on, and the irony burned.

The moon rose and set full circle in the sky, each revolution a silent witness to his suffering. And after what seemed like an eternity, the throne in the distance spun to face him, the smile of its occupant promising something far worse than pain.

* * *

><p>At some point the Chitauri must have torn him down from the rock and treated his wounds, but Ronan didn't remember much of it. All he knew was that he must have been very close to death indeed if they'd paused their torture. (Or perhaps Thanos had ordered them to stop, in preparation for an even worse punishment. Ronan didn't want to spend a long time dwelling on <em>that <em>possibility).

He woke up strapped to a metal slab in one of the Chitauri's underground compounds, disoriented and terrified until he finally realized where he was. The creatures bustled around him, their machines injecting him with unknown substances as they checked on the progress of his injuries (and caused some new ones in the process).

Surprisingly, he didn't feel _all that bad, _at least compared to how he'd felt since he was first brought to this rock by Thanos. The Chitauri healers, despite their obviously limited knowledge of his anatomy, had managed to dull his pain and reduce his near-fatal fever. His hands and feet still ached, but even those injuries were somewhat better with the infection treated. The muzzle was gone, though his lips still felt like they'd been put through a shredder. It even seemed as if they had _fed_ him, or at least injected him with nutrients. Who would have guessed?

Ronan drifted in and out of sleep for days, his body demanding rest while his mind was refused to give up wakefulness and the illusion of control. He knew that this brief respite wasn't mercy –treating his injuries was simply meant to keep him alive until Thanos could torture him more cruelly.

_You thought you could defy him, but now you are nothing but his slave._

Ronan couldn't force the Other's taunt out of his head, as much as he wanted to. He could wrap his mind around the torture – after all, he had ruined Thanos' plans with his betrayal and loss of the Infinity Stone to the Guardians. The punishment he had received so far was terrible, but fully expected. But what else could Thanos' twisted mind have in store for him?

Ronan realized he was about to find out when he opened his eyes to see the Other standing over him, its teeth bared and a satisfied smile twisting its face.

"He is ready to see you, little Kree," it whispered as Ronan glared back, ignoring the lurch of his stomach.

The Chitauri chained him again, and Ronan found that he was still too weak to put up even a symbolic fight. They forced him to his feet, but his legs gave out under him after only a few seconds standing. He groaned as his bones ground together painfully, the result of never being set properly however many weeks ago.

The Chitauri half-carried, half-dragged him to the surface and over the moon's rocky terrain with the Other leading the way. As they approached the throne at the center of the landscape, Ronan's heart started to race in pure, undiluted terror.

He couldn't deny that he was afraid anymore – because anyone with eyes could plainly see that he _was._

The throne spun around and Ronan barely managed not to whimper as Thanos stared down at him, not a trace of mercy in his eyes.

"Leave us," he boomed, and the Chitauri dropped him in the dirt, scampering back down the rocks to their compound. The Other stayed behind, practically dripping with excitement at witnessing Ronan's next punishment. Ronan had never met a creature more cowardly or repulsive in his life – he genuinely wondered _why_ Thanos would bother resurrecting it. As far as he was concerned, he had done the universe a favor by killing it.

Ronan sat up and forced himself to meet Thanos' stare directly, realizing how cold he was again. The chill of space had sunk deep into his bones over the past month, but that was nothing compared to the chill in the Titan's eyes.

"The traitor is unrepentant," the Other wheezed self-importantly, circling Ronan's naked, shivering form. "The punishments have not taught it respect, only fear. It still does not appreciate the depth of its own _weakness,"_ the Other spat the word, pausing mid-rant to kick Ronan viciously in the side with a steel-toed boot.

"Then I will have to teach him just how lowly he truly is," Thanos replied softly, and Ronan didn't like the look in his eyes at _all_. Aside from the usual cool contempt the Titan always showed when speaking to him, there was something _else _in his expression, something savage and primal. Ronan truly understood for the first time that this was a being who lived simply to watch entire worlds burn.

"I had something made for you, boy," the Titan addressed him, the beginnings of a cruel smile on his face. He nodded at the Other, and the creature practically imploded with glee. It reached into the pocket of its robes, pulling out a thin circle of metal. The object glinted in the dim light, and Ronan could just make out the marks on its surface.

He shouted in fury and panic as he realized what he was looking at. Thanos nodded to the Other, and Ronan desperately moved out of its reach as far as his chains allowed him (which wasn't very far), snapping and biting at the speaker as it attempted to fasten the collar around his neck.

Ronan's struggles ended as soon as the Other's fingers touched his skin, dredging up his darkest memories. When his senses finally returned to him (he found that it was taking a bit longer each time) he noticed a new weight around his neck and felt the ground beneath him shaking with Thanos' laughter.

"Leave us," the Titan commanded again, and Ronan whimpered in terror as he realized what would happen with the Other gone. But maybe he was jumping to conclusions - Thanos was twisted, to be certain, but he'd never given Ronan any indication that he wanted -

Ronan trembled as the Titan stood and began to climb down the steps of his throne, each step shaking the ground and sending vibrations through his entire body.

"No," he denied, forcing the word past his torn lips and knowing that his weakness would be burned in his memory forever. "No. No, _please don't –"_

A whispered word from Thanos and the collar burned red-hot, marking Ronan from the inside out as the Titan laughed in delight. He screamed as the fire consumed his body and mind, but even that was nothing compared to the pain that Thanos that inflicted on him next.

Naked in the dirt, bleeding, and violated in the way he feared most, Ronan realized what the Other had truly meant all those moons ago. Thanos had taken something far more important from him than his freedom or his comfort.

He had taken his pride.

* * *

><p>The weeks and months blurred together after that, and Ronan couldn't be bothered with tracking how many had passed. Instead of the rotations of the moon and constellations, his life was defined by new measurements:<p>

The constant ache deep in his body that hurt differently (and worse) than the tortures from before.

The sizzle of the collar against his skin whenever Thanos summoned him for another round of humiliation.

The creaking of his bones and the tight pull of skin whenever he moved. His bones were still improperly aligned, and Ronan didn't recall how long it had been since he'd eaten real food that wasn't drugged or poisoned. He didn't care enough to try and remember.

He was allowed the freedom to wander the rock when he became bored of sitting at Thanos' feet, as long as his master (Ronan didn't remember when he started thinking of Thanos as _master_, but it had stuck) didn't need anything from him.

He wandered slowly and aimlessly, avoiding the Chitauri whenever possible as he stared off into the vast emptiness of space, the light of dying stars illuminating his path. At one time, he would have plotted his escape. The Chitauri appeared to be little more than beasts, but they were an advanced race that had mastered space travel.

Ronan had observed their comings and goings enough to know that their spacecraft could only be piloted by one with Chitauri DNA and cybernetics. He couldn't fly their ships as they were, but he was confident that he could reprogram one easily enough if he got the chance.

The man he was before would have tried even if success was impossible, just to let Thanos know that he would never be broken. But now…

Now Ronan couldn't see a future where he would even _want_ to escape. Even if he somehow removed the collar that linked him to Thanos, he was certain that the entire galaxy would still see his shame simply by looking at him. How could they not?

He couldn't – he _wouldn't_ - go home, and face his people in humiliation.

He was fairly sure that even death wasn't an option, as much as he stared into the Void wishing he could fall in.

On one of his long walks, his collar started to heat up and singe his skin, a signal from Thanos that it was time to return. Ronan made the slow, painful trek back, knowing that he would be punished for not hurrying as submissively as possible.

It didn't matter much to him either way – _everything_ Thanos did to him hurt. Though his anger was terrible to behold and usually resulted in Ronan lying half-dead against a rock, choking on his own blood, his false affections were much worse. Ronan never felt lower than when Thanos petted his head, telling him how much he _loved_ him in his casually cruel way.

To add insult to the injury, Ronan had started feeling traces of thought and flashes of emotion that didn't – couldn't - belong to him. It reminded him of when he'd used the Infinity Stone to attack Xandar, except this time the other identity was easily distinguishable from his own. And whenever Thanos was at his most furious, excited or satisfied (usually from torturing him), his emotions would bleed into Ronan's consciousness as an added mockery.

For the past several weeks, Thanos had been especially restless. The Chitauri were mobilizing in mass, and Ronan suspected that the Titan was off to destroy some new planet.

He didn't know or care which planet it was (he'd heard whispers of Xandar in his dreams, but didn't feel it was the true target). All Ronan cared about was how much pain he'd endured since Thanos' newest obsession began, and how much more he would have to endure before it was over.

As he got closer to the throne, Ronan could see that Thanos was having an audience with a visitor – a woman, judging by her lean physique. He stood by quietly, stepping discreetly into the shadows until the back of his neck prickled and Thanos' eyes moved to his hiding place.

"Come here, boy," his master boomed, and Ronan knew he had no choice but to obey. He dropped to his knees and lowered his eyes, crawling submissively towards the throne without daring to look up. He didn't feel the sharp rocks slicing his skin because his mind was so focused on the identity of the visitor.

Thanos sometimes held audiences, but not very often, and Ronan hadn't seen a lone woman here yet. He knew that he should be humiliated beyond belief at appearing this way, but he was too worn down to care.

- and confused by the sudden, sheer sadistic _glee_ that choked his senses. With his presence, he felt that the tone of the meeting had changed entirely.

Ronan heard a soft gasp beside him as Thanos beckoned him up to sit at his feet. He crawled past the woman without looking at her, shaking slightly at the promise of more pain. As he reached the top step and sat, turning to steal a glance at the visitor, his heart seemed to drop through his stomach as time stopped cold.

It was _Nebula._

Her clothes were looser and worn, suited more to travel than the battle armor she'd worn when commanding his troops. She was thinner, and he couldn't help but notice the bruises dotting her skin, as if she'd just narrowly escaped from a battle.

Her jaw was slack with absolute shock, and even worse was the disguised, yet still horrifying _pity _in her eyes. Ronan looked away upon seeing it, feeling as if he'd been burned. His lower lip trembled, and he forced back the hot tears lining his eyes that threatened to spill over.

Thanos' laughter echoed through the fractures of his mind as his hands gripped Ronan's shoulders possessively.

"Don't you recognize my newest servant, daughter?" the Titan gloated softly, cruelly. "I think you've _possibly_ made his acquaintance several times before. Perhaps you even served under him, betrayed your own father for him! But he's not exactly the same man he was before. Something has…_shifted."_

Thanos shoved him roughly down the steps and Ronan landed in a crumpled heap at the base of the throne. He was too shattered to even consider moving or sitting up to maintain some dignity (as if that was still possible).

Nebula must have recovered from her initial shock, because her next words were as cold as the void of space and free of any sentiment.

"Nothing much has changed, Dad," she answered her father derisively. "He was always a pathetic creature. Everyone in the galaxy knew it but him, only now he knows it too."

"Then let it be a lesson to you," Thanos boomed threateningly. "Because your fate will make his seem like a pleasant dream if I discover that you've lied about Xandar, and betrayed me for a second time."

"I'm _not_ lying," Nebula insisted. "I've been patrolling Nova space for days, and I nearly got killed just to confirm your suspicions! The Nova Corps are spread thin. They will be so focused on protecting their citizens from attacks on the Anniversary that their forces will be diverted from the Stone. After their losses," she sneered, no doubt in reference to Ronan, "they have no pilots left to spare."

"And if they harness the Stone's power?" Thanos asked softly, dangerously, his shrewd mind anticipating a trap. "What then, daughter?"

"Then we will burn along with them," Nebula replied, trying to hide her uncertainty with a display of confidence.

"Hmmm," Thanos mused, obviously reluctant to take Nebula at her word. Ronan could feel the wheels of his master's powerful but unbalanced mind turning, weaving thread after thread of possibility together into a tapestry that only he could understand.

"The four who stood against this slave and managed to harness the Stone's power, along with Gamora…they will be there?" Thanos asked curiously, and Ronan was pulled out of his inner abyss long enough to realize that they were speaking of the _guardians of the galaxy._

"They're the guests of honor, Dad. They're rumored to be unpredictable, but I suspect that they won't be able to stay away. Gamora, at least, has always needed to be the center of attention."

"Then if nothing else, I look forward to meeting them," Thanos laughed, standing to his full height and stepping over Ronan as he descended from his throne. "The new wave of Chitauri need to be blooded, and once I have the Stone in my possession, I will turn my attention to our next targets."

Thanos bent down to wrap a hand around Ronan's throat, lifting the former Accuser up so they were face-to-face, eye-to-eye.

"I will start by burning Kree-Lar and Hala in tribute to Her."

He tossed Ronan derisively back into the dirt, walking past Nebula to rally his vast, seething army.

* * *

><p>Well...that was a bit heavy :o Sorry.<p>

Next chapter we will return to the Guardians (and Thanos' plans for the Infinity Stone). And who knows...maybe our unlikely pair will cross paths again, if Ronan finds some way to escape from Thanos' dimension. And yes, Ronan is just as distracted by random singing and dancing as ever. Even more so, actually. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

_"Once I have the Infinity Stone in my possession I will return for you, boy, so you can witness the fall of the Kree at my side. Before they die screaming, your people will see you for what you truly are."_

Ronan looked on with Nebula as the last of the Chitauri ships and leviathans disappeared through the open portal, shrieking with bloodlust after their master's speech and primed for war. Thanos had chosen to use a star way that wasn't as fast and direct for his initial attack on Xandar, but offered the advantage of fitting his entire army inside without collapsing.

As the Titan entered the portal after half of his army had already gone through (Thanos never led from the front) he had turned to send Ronan one last sadistic, knowing smile.

As if to say: _this is your **true** punishment, boy. Your people, your culture, and your world will be erased from existence as you watch, and it will be entirely your fault. _

Ronan sat frozen at the base of the throne, staring at the portal for a long time after the last ship flew through. Though his eyes and ears still worked perfectly, his mind refused to accept what he had just seen and heard.

"Ronan."

A sharp, yet questioning voice from somewhere very far away. It barely registered over the chaos in his head.

_(I will destroy your world)_

He had spoken those words once, not so long ago – hadn't he? When he proclaimed judgment on the scum of Xandar, he had known nothing but absolute power, and certainty in his own victory - in his own righteousness.

Except he wasn't the Accuser this time– instead, he was one of the Accused. And now his people would pay for his many mistakes.

_"Ronan!"_

Slim but strong hands on his shoulders, shaking him violently back into reality. Ronan flinched and lashed out at the sudden touch, sending Nebula hurtling back against the rocks nearby before he realized what he was doing. She managed to roll and straighten up before the impact snapped her spine, but it was a close call.

"Let it go, Ronan," she warned him as she approached again, more cautiously this time. "There's nothing you can do to stop him. Trust me – _I know."_

Ronan watched numbly as Nebula unfastened her long, hooded cloak and tossed it to him.

"Here, put that on," she told him, her voice softening.

His face flushed as he remembered again that he was naked, as he had been for the past months – year? – since Thanos had first brought him here. Ronan caught the garment with shaking fingers, studying it for a long moment before he wrapped it around his shoulders. It was far too tight even with all of the muscle he'd lost, and though it fell to Nebula's ankles, it barely skimmed the top of his knees.

He felt laughter bubbling up from a deep, broken place inside him, and before he knew it, his head was thrown back and he was clutching his stomach in mirth as the sound split the silence at its seams.

Nebula took one step back, then another. If Ronan wasn't so caught up in the cruel hilarity of it all, he would have been pleased to see that he could still inspire fear in someone.

It was ironic. Before all of this, he had always been drawn to Nebula, and he would be lying if he said that he had never wanted her to see him sans armor and everything else. But that was back when he was still strong and whole. He couldn't deny that he wasn't much to look at anymore.

His master was too perceptive and far too cruel. Thanos always knew exactly where to strike to hurt him the most.

His pride, and now his home. But the Titan's newest promise was by far the most devastating. Ronan would endure Thanos' worst tortures for an eternity in exchange for the safety of his people, and Thanos knew it.

It didn't matter if the Kree had abandoned him – as long as he was alive, he was the Supreme Accuser. As weak and worthless as he was, he had sworn never to abandon _them_.

_But what can I do to stop him from carrying out his promise? I am weak and alone, and Thanos has an entire army at his command. Within hours, he will have the Infinity Stone, and he will not fail as I did._

Ronan opened his eyes to see Nebula looking at him in morbid fascination and pity, and the beginning of an idea began to take shape in his mind. He was weak, there was no denying that – he hadn't eaten in months, and he could barely walk without keeling over.

He had no ship, no army, and no supporters, and most of the galaxy had celebrated his "death", united only in their disappointment that it hadn't been slower and more painful.

His mind was linked to Thanos' via the collar, and if he attempted to leave the Sanctuary, he had no doubt the metal around his neck would prevent or at least punish an escape.

But he wasn't alone _now_.

And maybe he didn't need an army. He only needed a way off of this rock, and a ship capable of transmitting a message.

Nebula's eyes widened as she realized the direction his thoughts had taken, and she shook her head sharply in denial.

"Oh, no, no, _no,"_ she half-shouted, drawing her knives as if the non-verbal suggestion alone was an attack, "No, I don't _think_ so, you traitorous bastard! You have no right to ask for such a sacrifice from me. After your failure, you have no right to ask _anything _of me!"

"I haven't asked for anything yet," Ronan reminded her, knowing that he had to phrase his words carefully. Nebula was desperate, Nebula was broken, but Nebula was also a merciless killer. And if she thought he was manipulating her into betraying her father by freeing him, she _would_ kill him - slowly and painfully.

"I can't kill Thanos for you," Ronan admitted, "I'm not even certain that he _can_ be killed. I know his death is what you _need, _and I've failed to achieve that for you. But I can offer you the one thing you _want _the most_."_

"And what is that, Ronan?" Nebula whispered, looking as if she wanted to disembowel him and wear his intestines as a scarf. Or perhaps another more…_valued_ body part. "If you even _imply_ that it's you, I will –"

Ronan interrupted before she could launch into a graphic description of exactly how she would neuter him. And to distract himself from the contempt on her face at the mere idea of having him. That hurt too – not as much as it would have before. But it was still painful.

"You will never be free of Thanos," he continued as confidently as he could, weaponless and wearing women's clothes. "But if you free me, I _can_ promise you your sister, Gamora, bound and helpless at your feet. You couldn't defeat her, but _I_ can. I trained her, just as I trained you. I know her weaknesses, and I would also see her suffer – through you."

Nebula lowered her knives, and Ronan could almost feel her mind churning, weighing the risks and benefits of each choice – short-term safety, or revenge against a hated enemy. If she helped him escape and Thanos caught up to her, the punishment for a second betrayal would be terrible. Nebula had suffered his cruelty far longer than Ronan had. But with the sound of Gamora's screams still fresh in her ears, she would be able to face anything.

He knew what he would choose in her place.

"I swear it on my life," he added solemnly for good measure, placing a hand over his heart. "I swear it on the lives and civilization of the Kree. I will bring you Gamora from Xandar, as soon as my people and you are safe. You will finally have your revenge."

_"Safe?"_ Nebula shot back bitingly. "Ronan, I think that you of all people should know that none of us will ever be _safe _from him. And from the looks of you, I doubt you'll make it two light years away from this rock, let alone all the way to Xandar. Don't play with me – you have nothing left to offer anyone._"_

_That_ stung, and it was partially true. And Ronan honestly wasn't sure if he could capture Gamora in his current condition. But since being brought to this dimension by Thanos, he had become better at twisting others' anger to his advantage, at distracting them so they focused their energies elsewhere, even briefly. Whether it was the Other or Thanos torturing him, even a few moments' rest could make all the difference.

"Gamora is responsible for what you've become, just as much as Thanos is. I can offer _you_ the vengeance you've been denied. Half of the universe has tried to kill me, and all of them have failed. I _will_ make it to Xandar if you free me, and I _will_ find Gamora."

Nebula studied his face for a long moment before her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Ronan had never been inarticulate, but he wasn't exactly known for being the most subtle wordsmith, either. He had always been straightforward, wielding the truth as he had his Universal Weapon. The mere fact that he was exaggerating for his own benefit must have stood out to Nebula.

But she hadn't killed him yet. And it wasn't as if she had much left to lose by accepting his offer.

_"_I can track you across the galaxy, Ronan, and _I _won't fail if I discover that you've betrayed me," Nebula whispered, her expression eerily like Thanos' as she moved in close and raised her blade to his cheek. "I will hunt you down and wait until you think you're safe and happy, then give you back to the stars in pieces. One. In. Each. Quadrant."

She drew the impossibly sharp edge slowly over his skin, as gentle as a whisper. His flesh parted like water, dark, bubbling blood welling up from the wound, but aside from the slight, barely noticeable tremor in his hands, his expression didn't change.

He had known far worse pain.

"My blade always leaves a scar," she warned him. "So let that be a reminder to you. I still don't know why I ever followed you."

But as her expression turned calculating, he knew she had made her choice. Perhaps they weren't so different, after all.

* * *

><p>"Holy <em>shit," <em>Rocket called excitedly, standing by the window as the _Milano _touched down on Xandar's VIP landing pad. "Are you even _seeing_ this, Quill?"

"Kinda focused on piloting right now, Rocket," Peter shot back, even though there was no way he had missed the size of the crowd being forced back from the landing pad by Nova Corps guards. Or the unholy amount of noise they made.

_All of it for us, _he had to remind himself, and that fact alone was enough to make him feel lightheaded. A year ago, he was a thief and smuggler with a galaxy full of one-night stands out for his blood (okay, so maybe that part hadn't really changed).

But now he and the team he were considered _heroes, _all because of a last-minute plan, a lot of ammo and some well-timed singing and dancing.

It was unreal.

"I confess that I was not expecting this level of enthusiasm from the local populace at our presence," Drax stated in his usual Thesaurus-like manner, watching the crowds outside the ship in both wariness and wonder. "I know the regulations state that no weapons are permitted at the ceremony, and we have made many friends on this planet. But surely it would be wise to carry at least one weapon each."

_"No,"_ Gamora told him firmly as she walked inside and joined them by the window. "It's ridiculous, but they have a pretty tough policy regarding weapons of any kind, _especially _the kind of weapons Rocket deals in. I don't want to end up in the Kyln again, do any of you?"

"It's fascism," Rocket grumbled. "Regulations designed to suck all of the joy out of life."

"I am Groot," the small but newly mobile Groot chimed in at Peter's side.

"Groot has a point," Rocket added. "With this many people to look after, security will be spread thin. I'm sure as hell not taking any chances with _my_ life. I escaped from the Kyln once – I can do it again."

"Rocket – "Gamora began to argue, before the hatch of the ship slid open without warning, the noise of the crowd cutting off any further attempts at conversation.

She shot him a look that seemed to say _you too? _Peter shrugged from the controls, pocketing the small handheld that Yondu had given him for a birthday fifteen years back or so. It wasn't that he expected anything to happen, because he totally didn't.

Except that he kind of did. He still wasn't entirely sure why they'd all agreed to show up and interrupt some perfectly good stealing, gambling, and planning for Thanos. Was it for the glory? For the prime time interviews? Or was it because they were asked (very) nicely by a hopeful-looking Rhomann Dey? He had been too adorable and pathetic to turn down.

And there he was, standing outside the ship as Peter stepped out with Groot perched on one shoulder, the bright sunlight stinging his eyes after many hours navigating through space.

"Quill! Groot!" He called, waving them over. "Welcome back – an entire year later. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"You've got that right," Peter agreed, shaking the Xandarian's hand. Drax, Rocket and Gamora all joined them outside of the _Milano, _each one of them probably carrying enough weapons to stock a small armory.

Dey greeted them before ushering them into an official shuttle. He took off slowly, careful to avoid injuring anyone in the screaming crowd, which had parted reluctantly to let them pass at the insistence of the security guards. Even with the help, there were still strangers' fingertips brushing against the windows, which was a bit odd_. _Peter rolled with it and so did Groot, but he couldn't help noticing that Gamora and Rocket, especially Rocket, were getting kind of twitchy.

Dey flew them over perfectly manicured grounds to the site of the memorial, each section of landscaping vivid with every color of flower imaginable. As the giant outdoor amphitheater came into view, Peter whistled in appreciation.

"What kind of music will you guys be playing?"

He caught a brief flash of the Xandarian's smile in the rearview mirror.

"Oh, I don't think you'd know it, Quill," Dey answered dismissively, obviously trying hard to keep a straight face.

"Hmmmm," Peter replied, not quite convinced. He looked at Gamora and winked, and she rolled her eyes in response.

* * *

><p>Nebula might not have trusted him, but she was true to her word. She gave him more ill-fitting clothes, all her own, and led him to where the ships and supplies were parked, making short work of the Chitauri soldiers standing guard.<p>

Ronan's head was still spinning with the realization that he was actually going to defy Thanos – he was going to be _free. _That is, if the collar didn't have some built-in safeguard to prevent him from leaving the planet. Ronan prayed that it didn't, but suspected that it did. If he was able to leave, he would have to track someone down who could remove it - assuming that Thanos didn't track him down first.

He would be taking a more direct, unstable star way at Nebula's insistence, which would hopefully bring him to Xandarian space before Thanos arrived. Once he was out of hyperspace, he would be able to transmit a message to both the Xandarians and the Kree, warning them of Thanos' attack. The plan wasn't perfect, and it probably involved revealing his identity as a guarantee of his honestly. Ronan had no desire to protect Xandar, but if it meant saving his people, he was willing to make temporary sacrifices.

He could kill them all later - starting with _the guardians of the galaxy_ (sans Gamora), when he was unfortunate enough to make their acquaintance again.

"This ship should get you to Xandar," Nebula explained quickly as she punched in the access code to the small shuttle and watched the hatch spring open. "But I used it a few weeks ago to spy on the Nova Corps for my father. They were able to track me, and they almost shot me down. So the ship is probably flagged in their system, and if they see you they'll open fire."

"Brilliant," Ronan muttered, clutching his side where one of his ribs had shifted painfully in his haste (the new break was a result of Thanos' temper a few days ago). "I'm starting to think that's the outcome you're hoping for."

She would not be joining him in his hunt on Xandar; though she claimed that the Nova Corps had her scans in their system and she would be captured almost instantly in the event of a landing, Ronan knew her well enough to discern the truth: she wouldn't be caught alive _or _dead within fifty million light years of her father.

Either Ronan would die trying to capture Gamora, which was the most likely possibility, or he would survive long enough to bring her bound and gagged to Nebula's new abode in a distant corner of the galaxy. There was no third option – the Luphomoid had made that abundantly clear. She had also told him openly that she would be tracking his movements, and basing her actions on what he did next.

After suffering the worst of Thanos, Ronan had no compelling reason to fear Nebula. But she was still a clever, unstable and dangerous variable that he would always have to account for, if he survived long enough to reach Xandar's surface.

"I'm betraying my father no matter what by freeing you," Nebula retorted sharply, not about to take any of Ronan's grief or complaints. "That's how much I want to see the light fade from Gamora's eyes as I hold her beating heart in my hands! So _don't -_" she pressed him against the wall of the ship, blade to his jugular, and suddenly all he could focus on was how close their bodies were – "deny me that, Ronan. Then I'll truly have _nothing_ left to hold me back."

"You will have your revenge," Ronan promised, breaking free of her grasp quickly and stepping gingerly into the small ship. It barely looked suitable for space travel and the technology was far more dated than anything he was used to, but it would have to do.

He met Nebula's eyes directly, feeling a pang of sadness at the knowledge that this would probably be their last meeting, despite his promise. "Why are you really doing this?" He couldn't help but wonder. "Is revenge on your sister this important to you?"

"I don't want you to become like me," Nebula whispered, closing the hatch before Ronan could even think of a suitable reply.

From there, decades of piloting experience took over as Ronan commandeered the ship, lifting off the Sanctuary's rocky surface and aiming for the most direct portal with Nebula's watchful eyes following him. He held his breath as he waited for the fiery pain, for the punishment he was certain the collar would deliver upon attempting to escape.

But the pain never came.

As the kaleidoscopic walls of hyperspace closed around him, Ronan couldn't help but think that he'd gotten off easy.

* * *

><p>Of course, his good fortune was never meant to last.<p>

Ronan wasn't surprised in the slightest as Nebula's ship careened towards the surface of Xandar, smoking from the hull from several rounds of fire from the Nova Corps. He'd emerged from the portal and contacted the Kree and Xandarian governments from a semi-safe distance away, but his ship was tracked and pursued almost immediately. The fleet had forced him towards the planet's atmosphere, opening fire upon his refusal to surrender.

The cowardly, ungrateful creatures – daring to shoot him out of the sky after he had delivered an advance warning to the Nova Prime herself! Unsurprisingly, they had demanded his identity after he had hacked into their private government channel with a message for the Xandarian leader.

He hadn't given them his real name, and had instead posed as a lower-ranking Kree official with firsthand knowledge of Thanos' plans. Apparently they didn't trust him, or maybe they just didn't appreciate the grim news on the day of their ridiculous anniversary celebration.

In any case, the grounds near the Capital were rushing up to meet him more quickly than he was comfortable with. Ronan managed to strap on a parachute and hit the eject button seconds before his ship crash-landed in the azure grass, bursting into a bright column of flame.

He heard distant screams as he drifted to the ground, though he didn't think that anyone had been injured in the crash.

A few miles away, Ronan saw a large, open area with tens of thousands of Xandarians seated in front of a gigantic, curved stage. They must have noticed the crash and explosion, and the pilots who had shot him down would be along in minutes to investigate the crash site.

He also heard something else above the screams, a sound he would never forget no matter how many cycles of hell he endured:

_"Ooh, child, things are gonna get easier…Ooh child, things'll get brighter…"_

They were _mocking_ him. He'd just saved their miserable species, and they were _laughing _at him.

But they would never take him alive.

Ronan tore off the parachute as soon as his feet hit the ground, grabbing the blaster at his waist and springing into action as his muscles spasmed in protest. He ran desperately, furiously for shelter in the concrete jungle up ahead, adrenaline and rage pumping through his veins and masking his pain and weakness, if only temporarily.

Though many people simply considered him to be an ignorant fanatic, Ronan had studied Xandar's culture, economy, architecture and major cities in exhaustive detail before his campaigns. He knew, for instance, that there was likely a landing pad up ahead, filled with the personal shuttles of foreign dignitaries and other guests of honor. He would kill whichever incompetent Nova Corps officers they had assigned to guard duty with little trouble, then take the ship of his choosing to escape and regroup.

Ronan quickly scanned the skies as he ran, checking anxiously for the approach of the pilots who had just tried to murder him. Though he didn't see the Nova Corps anywhere in sight, there was a dark shadow approaching the Capital and blocking out the sky from miles away on the horizon.

It wasn't a storm, as least not in a traditional sense – it was a wave of ships. _Chitauri ships._

Ronan's stomach dropped as he realized that he couldn't sense Thanos anywhere nearby, even through the telepathic link of the collar. At this distance, the Titan's presence should have been noticeable immediately.

There was only one explanation: Thanos wasn't there, which meant that the Infinity Stone wasn't in the Capital. The attack was a diversion, but the Xandarians would sacrifice their own citizens if it meant sending the Nova Corps to guard the Stone from Thanos, wherever it was being held.

Ronan only hoped they were up to the task. Though he loathed the Nova Corps with every ounce of his being, he had to admit that they were worthy enough opponents.

Ronan held his weapon aloft as his bare feet hit the concrete of the landing pad, firing without hesitation at the first guard who ran out to intercept him. The Xandarian toppled over, a smoking hole punched through the center of his chest.

Shouts erupted around him and stun shots whizzed by his head. Ronan snarled, clumsily ducking and weaving between ships as his legs threatened to give out under him. Another fool darted out from cover, clipping him on the shoulder with a stun bolt before he could react.

Ronan dropped the handheld he'd been carrying with a groan, his entire arm going limp and numb instantly. Still, it didn't slow him down – he charged at the pilot without hesitation, knocking him backwards onto the concrete. He dug his sharp, uneven nails into the soft flesh of the man's throat, parting layers of skin like water before _tearing _and ending his opponent's life in a spray of blood.

With that unbearable _music_ still scathing his eardrums, it was cathartic to have bloody revenge in some small way.

"Don't move, you animal! Put your hands up where I can see them."

A livid voice from behind him. Ronan turned away from his victim slowly, raising his dripping left hand partway in the air (the right still refused to move). He was looking at a female pilot with yellow hair, whose face was twisted in rage. She wasn't holding a standard stun gun, but something far more lethal.

"I've never killed a Kree before," she whispered, a bloodthirsty smile contorting her face (and suddenly Ronan wasn't there anymore, but trapped again in the waking nightmare that had consumed him for decades).

"I've always wanted to know what color the blood of monsters is-"

Ronan had already braced himself to die (or at least to drift around in the Void until Thanos revived him) but the woman's words were cut off with a brilliant, searing flash of light.

A Chitauri flagship had just passed overhead, reducing the pilot (and half of the landing pad) to a pile of ash. Ronan swore in Kree and stumbled to the control panel of the closest, least damaged ship he could find, an orange and blue M-class that looked like it had at least some engine power.

The ship looked strangely familiar and prompted a flash of déjà vu, but Ronan had no time to ponder why. Instead, he rushed to the external control panel, tore off the cover and manually overrode the system.

The hatch sprang open and Ronan staggered inside, propping himself against the wall as he drew in a series of shallow, painful breaths. One of his broken ribs had pierced through his skin, causing a steady stream of blood to drip from the wound.

The interior of the ship swayed before him, but Ronan just managed to fight off unconsciousness with a final surge of willpower. He stumbled over to the pilot's chair and powered up the computer system, reprogramming the ship to accept him as the captain.

It was simple enough – such a mundane task would maybe make a half hour's diversion for a Kree toddler. Soon enough, the ship _(Milano, _it was registered as), asked for one final confirmation:

_"Sir. Erase all permissions from previous captain, Peter Jason Quill?"_

Upon hearing that disturbingly familiar name, Ronan froze, going as still and silent as the void of space.

_"Sir. Do you confirm the deletion of Peter Jason Quill's access?"_

"Affirmative. Does Quill go by any other name or alias," Ronan asked the computer apprehensively, knowing even before he heard the answer that his luck had finally run out.

_He also identifies himself as 'Star Lord."'_

Ronan threw back his head and laughed long and low at the cruel, perfect symmetry of the universe. Everything came back full circle, in the end.

* * *

><p>They ran for the <em>Milano <em>as fast as their legs could carry them, screams of pain and panic following them the entire way. The smell of cooked flesh stuck in their nostrils, left from when the Chitauri ships had burned through half of the crowd, incinerating thousands of people without mercy.

And more were coming, a dark wave over the horizon that threatened to obliterate the rest of Xandar. And not a single Nova Corps ship was in sight to hold them off.

He knew that they probably looked like cowards for running, not the honored heroes the ceremony claimed they were, but what could they hope to accomplish without a ship? Even in the _Milano, _they would be killed almost instantly by the better armed and equipped warships – unless they got the hell off of Xandar, _now._

Gamora and Groot reached the smoking, half-obliterated landing pad first (damn, they were _fast _for a girl and a half-grown tree), followed closely by Drax, himself and Rocket. They headed immediately for the _Milano_, not wasting a second's time.

His key wasn't working, which was weird, because it was still lighting up. Peter's lungs burned as he manually punched in his access code with shaking fingers, only for the panel outside of the ship to flash red with the words "Access Denied."

"What the actual fuck, Quill?"

_"Sorry, _man!" He shouted at Rocket, pressing his fingertip down on the scanner for a print and DNA analysis. "Access Denied" flashed across the screen again, only for the light to turn green a split second later.

Odd, but he wouldn't worry about it now.

The hatch slid open and Peter stepped through, expecting the others to enter alongside him. He was halfway to the pilot's chair when he realized that something was wrong. He turned around, stomach dropping as he saw that his four friends were pressed up against an energy shield, the barrier preventing anyone who didn't share his DNA from entering the ship.

Oh, yeah. He'd forgotten about that particular setting, and he'd only used it maybe once or twice, _ever_.

_But how -_

"Give them one last good look, Star Lord," a soft, hoarse voice advised him from his pilot's chair, "because you will be _unrecognizable_ once my vengeance is complete."

_Dammit, of all the fucking times something like this could happen. It figures._

Peter reached for his handheld slowly, only to discover to his dismay that he'd left his coat draped over a chair in the amphitheater. No weapons then, and some psycho who apparently wanted to dismember him had taken over his ship. Okay, so these weren't _optimal_ conditions, but he would work with them as best as he could.

He turned back to the team quickly and held up his index finger in the universal sign of "I'll be just one minute" as they stared at him confusedly, realizing that something was _very wrong._

The hatch slid closed and Peter clenched his fists subconsciously, bracing for a fight.

But he would try to talk first – especially since Jack the Ripper here probably had weapons in addition to mad hacking skills. And if he was able to keep him distracted long enough, Rocket could probably manually reset the ship's computer and open the door from outside.

"Okay, buddy," he began slowly, seeing only the back of a bald blue head. Man, the crazy dude was _tall_, whoever he was. "I know we all feel like taking another guy's ship sometimes – hell, I used to do it for a _living_. But we're kind of in a hurry now, and I'm sure you don't want to be stuck with the Chitauri either. So here's the deal – you give up that chair, and we'll take you along for the ride. Wherever you need to go, no hard feelings, no questions asked."

It sounded like a pretty good deal to him (even though it was total bullshit) but the angry Smurf in _his _pilot's chair apparently wasn't buying it.

"Do you _ever _stop talking?" His kidnapper growled, spinning around slowly and dramatically so Peter could see the face of some long-forgotten enemy, who had returned for revenge on his erstwhile oppressor or something.

He frowned as he took in the man who was occupying his chair. The first thing he noticed was that the guy was _not _in good shape. In fact, he looked bad. Like, _just lost two pints of blood and seriously close to dying _bad.

He was disturbingly thin, and Peter could count every rib on the man's bare chest, which was only partially covered by a tight, ill-fitting coat – a woman's coat? The pants were the same deal, and the hems came all the way up to his knees. His feet were bare. There was a long, blackened gash on his right cheek and a collar – an honest-to-god fucking _collar - _around his neck. Had he just escaped from slavers?

The man sat gingerly, favoring one side. As Peter looked closer, he saw that the one side of the coat was sticky with what had to be a large amount of blood.

The Kree (Peter decided that his would-be attacker had to be Kree, with the smattering of blue veins lining his face and neck and those eerie, impossibly deep purple eyes) should have looked utterly ridiculous, even with long, razor sharp blades he was holding, one in each hand _- Drax's_ knives. A total non-threat.

Except that there was an insane, burning intensity in his eyes, as if the flames of hatred itself were animating his body, keeping him tethered to life. The blood splattered on his face and hands didn't help. Peter took a step back as the man stood, bones audibly creaking and lavender eyes burning like twin suns into his own.

"You don't recognize me?" the Kree whispered, looking almost insulted before an unhinged smile split his face. "No – I suppose you wouldn't, Star Lord. Even my own people never knew my _true _face."

"Uh-huh," Peter nodded slowly, plastering a bland, non-threatening smile on his face. Now that he thought about it, there _was _something unsettlingly familiar about the unhinged Kree standing in front of him, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was. But their last meeting must not have ended on good terms, because this guy seemed to be dissecting him with his eyes. And _not_ in a good way.

"So do you have a name I should call you by?" He asked politely, praying that Rocket was close to overriding the system (any fucking time would do).

The Kree let out an insane giggle (an actual _giggle)_ but man, it was genuinely scary. Peter took another step back, subconsciously retreating even as the taller man closed in.

"They call me many things," his captor whispered. "Terrorist, radical, zealot. But I have never been called a – how did you so _eloquently _state it one year ago? A '_turd blossom?'"_

_Well, **fuck**._ He was dealing with a zombie Ronan.

Ronan held Drax's knives out in an attack stance, his eyes promising Peter a slow, agonizing death.

"I will return you to the Xandarian scum in pieces. Let them play your ridiculous Terran ballads as I sip their blood through your skull!"

Rocket hadn't come through yet, so Peter decided to play the last - and best? - card left in his deck. It wasn't like he had anything left to lose now.

As one very fanatical yet bewildered Kree Accuser looked on, Star Lord began to dance the Robot.


	5. Chapter 5

_"I will return you to the Xandarian scum in pieces. Let them play your ridiculous Terran ballads as I sip their blood through your skull!"_

Finally, vengeance was _his_. Ronan smiled wildly upon seeing Star Lord back up even further, his fear written plain on his face. The hundred sharp, seething whispers inside of his skull rejoiced at the sight – where was the bold, arrogant Star Lord now? It pleased him beyond measure that he could still inspire terror in his enemies, even in such a depraved opponent. Thanos may have taken his pride, but he hadn't taken _everything._

The long, razor-sharp blades he was holding (not doubt the property of that savage, Drax) felt like natural extensions of his arms. He would carve up Star Lord's soft Terran skin like a butcher chopping meat, but he would leave his head fully intact. Then he would execute the other three _guardians of the galaxy _and capture Gamora, fulfilling his promise to Nebula.

His memory of the other four would fade over time, but he would always have the head. When he returned home with a hero's welcome, which would definitely happen because he had only been serving his people and had done _nothing wrong, _he would use Kree technology to re-activate and manipulate Star Lord's brain.

From there, Ronan could torture the Terran for an eternity as he was disembodied yet tethered to life, begging for deliverance that would never be granted. Centuries would pass and Roan would be cloned or given to the Supreme Intelligence itself, and he would request the same to happen to Star Lord. Whatever his fate was, the Terran would suffer his wrath until the end of time.

Kree justice was so unyielding and final, which was one aspect of the system that Ronan had never fully understood – followed faithfully, but never completely agreed with. Some transgressions were far too heinous to be solved with a simple execution – and some of the Accused deserved far more drawn-out suffering.

Star Lord was one of those people. He had impeded Kree justice and nearly condemned Ronan to an eternity of slavery and humiliation. And Ronan would inflict equal pain on him for an eternity, an agony that transcended all comprehension –

** _Wait - _ **

The Accuser's feverish fantasies of vengeance stopped cold as he suddenly realized that the Terran, who had just been frozen in terror, had started to _move._

Ronan watched wide-eyed as Star Lord moved in a way that he had never seen before in any organic being. He turned his head to the side in a precise, measured manner, then his torso. His arms and legs followed the same pattern, held unnaturally stiff and away from his body. He didn't appear to be in any visible distress, but Ronan couldn't say with any confidence that the other man was at all _well._

_What in Hala's name is he **doing**?_

"Are you…all right?" he asked in utter puzzlement, at a complete loss for what to do next. If Star Lord was having a seizure, then his brain could suffer damage before Ronan could preserve it using cryonics. In that case, his glorious plans for revenge would be ruined.

"It's all good, bro," Star Lord answered just at Ronan was starting to panic. He turned back to the Accuser and moved his arms up and down again, in that very deliberate yet _inhuman_ manner.

"If I go too long without having my gears reset, this sort of thing can happen. But thanks for asking!"

Ronan's eyes narrowed at Star Lord's glib, unconcerned tone, and an idea was born like the dawning of the sun as he recalled that _other_ bizarre day exactly one year ago. What if this was just another distraction, an attempt to buy time as the other guardians planned an attack? In that case, Ronan had nothing to gain by standing around passively.

He could understand a _normal_ distraction. But _another_ mating dance – really?

He still had no idea why Star Lord kept choosing to distract him by _propositioning_ him, and he couldn't decide whether he was furious or strangely intrigued by his primitive ways. But Ronan ignored his discomfort and leapt at the Terran anyway, wrenching the shorter man's head back and pressing Drax's knife firmly against the soft skin of his throat.

_Just in time._

The hatch of the ship slid open again without warning, no doubt the work of the talking rodent creature. Star Lord's distraction had only been seconds away from possibly saving his life.

Ronan found himself looking at four very angry, highly armed _guardians of the galaxy. _And to his complete surprise (not really), only Gamora appeared to recognize him without his war paint on. Her jaw dropped as she realized who he was, and her eyes flitted over his scarred, emaciated form as if she was trying to piece together the last year of his miserable existence in her mind.

"One step closer and he loses his head," Ronan growled menacingly as the guardians glared at him, before he broke down into a series of disjointed giggles. "But that would be a lie, wouldn't it? It's a crime to lie – excuse me. I was planning on keeping his head anyway."

Ronan could feel Star Lord's pulse racing against the skin of his lower arm, could smell the man's scent _(soap, smoke, mint), _a jarring change from the stench of blood and death that had been a constant in Thanos' realm. He pulled the Terran closer without consciously realizing it, his hand shaking and inadvertently drawing a trickle of blood with Drax's blade.

He saw the four _guardians of the galaxy _exchange looks, though he didn't know them well enough to fully interpret their silent conversation from the outside. But suffice to say, they didn't look happy.

"Release him, you fiend," Drax shouted cluelessly, brandishing two sharp, twisted pieces of metal that he must have trawled among the wreckage. "And we may yet allow you to live."

"You heard him, blue," the rodent added, his eyes narrowed threateningly. "Quill's a pretty huggable guy, but you have to let him go now or you'll be getting a taste of _this."_

He was brandishing a homemade gun that was certainly one-of-a-kind and illegal basically everywhere in the galaxy. Ronan still remembered the weapon they'd shot him with on the _Dark Aster, _which packed enough force into one blast to destroy a small moon.

It hadn't phased him then, but he wasn't naïve enough to believe that such a blast would leave him unscathed in his current condition.

The small tree had raised itself up in height by growing and standing on its branches, and it was looking down at Ronan in a way that could only be described as _displeased._

Ronan huffed in annoyance and met Gamora's eyes, shooting her a look that seemed to ask: _is everyone else on your team **really** that much of an idiot?_

She sighed softly in exasperation. "Don't any of you realize who he is?"

A long, awkward pause. Ronan's eyes flitted between each face, his chest burning in indignation as the interior of the ship started to become dark and fuzzy around the edges. His head was spinning, and suddenly it was a struggle to hold onto the much weaker Terran (albeit a Terran who had survived an Infinity Stone).

"Who else but our dear old pal zombie Ronan, back from the dead?" Peter Quill quipped in his arms, his voice slightly strained in fear, yet still infused with that arrogant, infuriating edge.

"Silence!" Ronan shouted, pressing the edge of the blade flush against the other man's skin again (his hand had started to slip), "you are _guilty. _All of you stand accused, and there will be _punishment. _I will bathe this ship in your blood and rejoice as I watch the light flee your eyes! Worry not, Destroyer," Ronan added maliciously, a desperate, insane smile twisting his face.

"You will see your loved ones again very soon. But first, wouldn't you like to hear how they –"

Without warning, he felt something curling around his upper arms, wrenching the limbs painfully back in their sockets and freeing Star Lord from his grasp. The Terran moved quickly to join his friends, and Ronan yelped in rage and panic as he was lifted up high, the top of his head brushing the ceiling.

_That fucking_ _tree._ As the room swayed around him, it had surreptitiously grown two branches along the walls of the ship to attack him from behind.

Ronan thrashed weakly against the small tree's branches, which had curled around his arms, torso, and legs, cutting off his circulation and grinding damaged bones together.

"I am Groot," it told him softly, its black eyes devoid of everything, including mercy.

Ronan prepared himself to die once again. If his fate was inevitable, he was prepared to accept his return to a dark, blissful oblivion. If by some small miracle Thanos couldn't reach him, he might finally be _safe._

But it seemed that he had been too optimistic in that estimation – according to someone else's reckoning, he still had plenty of punishment to suffer.

The collar seared white-hot against his neck, tightening and constricting his airway until it felt as if his head would be severed from his shoulders.

Ronan screamed and laughed and laughed and screamed without making a sound as the world slowly went dark. He could _hear_ his master's voice in his ears, could _feel_ a strong, cruel hand curling around his heart in a vengeful promise: _you will **never **be free. _Ronan prayed that he would never wake again, but he knew deep down that peace was no longer a luxury available to him.

Perhaps this was his punishment.

He should have known – the universe had a certain cruel symmetry to it, a cyclic ebb and flow that brought only the deepest pain. But Thanos' rage burned away everything there was.

Soon it would consume him, too.

* * *

><p>Peter stared at the scene before him in absolute bewilderment, his heart still nearly pounding a hole through his chest. Groot's branches were twined around Ronan's body like the coils of a boa constrictor, slowly compressing him in a way that made even Peter wince, though his neck was still sticky with his own blood. The crazy bastard had just missed slicing his throat.<p>

Ronan struggled to break free from Groot's hold, weak and disoriented. Then his eyes went distant, a nameless, bottomless terror overtaking his features. An instant later, the circle of metal around his neck glowed red. To the horror of everyone looking on, now his unconscious form was jerking around like a marionette with a very sadistic puppeteer.

_What the hell is going on?_

Groot was shaking wildly from Ronan's convulsions, his branches straining, still too small to contain the eerie and unexpected strength of a very powerful, yet severely injured Kree.

"Thanos," Gamora whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "This is Thanos' work…"

"Groot," Rocket shouted desperately, loading his latest awesome and extremely deadly gadget. "You need to drop him - he'll tear you to pieces! I can hit him with this as soon as he's down."

_"Wait,"_ Peter shouted, though he wasn't entirely sure why. But he knew that it wasn't to stop Rocket from killing Ronan – that would be absurd. His protest had more to do with the potential damage to his ship. Yeah, that was _definitely_ it.

"Don't fire that in here," Gamora shouted, "I know how to stop the convulsions. Drax, I'll need you to help Groot hold him still."

Drax looked like he was fully on board with the shoot-Ronan-dead proposal, but he moved reluctantly towards the shaking Accuser nonetheless, forcing the Kree's head back roughly and struggling to hold it still.

Gamora moved in closer to the convulsing Ronan than Peter was comfortable with, taking one of the blades he had dropped on the floor in her hand. As they looked on, she opened a long gash on her palm before reaching out and allowing drops of bright red blood to fall on Ronan's collar.

The torture device glowed a deep, eerie blue for a long moment before it appeared to loosen and visibly cool. Ronan's convulsions ceased, and Drax allowed his head to fall forward once he went completely still, shocked into silence. Only the harsh, wet raking of each breath the Kree drew in confirmed that he was still alive.

Groot lowered the unconscious Accuser to the floor more gently than Peter would have expected, but perhaps he was still in shock like the rest of them. Even Rocket had nothing to contribute, and Peter's mind had gone blank when it normally would have buzzed with quips and jokes at Ronan's expense.

He couldn't deny it – this situation was fucked up beyond belief, and confusing beyond his comfort level. Ronan was supposed to be _dead, _reduced to atoms_. _Now here he was again, looking as if he'd been through nine circles of hell.

But he had to get them away from the Chitauri before he focused on the disturbing implications of the scene in front of him. Peter strapped himself into the pilot's chair and advised the others to do the same. Drax and Groot hauled Ronan up into a seat and strapped him in after a moment's pause, and none too gently on Drax's part. Peter figured that they could jettison him at any time, if they had to.

He fired up the engines and lifted off, rocketing towards open space and hoping beyond hope that another wave of ships wasn't on its way. Though he had to duck and weave to dodge fire from a few smaller warships, he was able to bring them to the nearest hyperspace lane relatively unscathed.

Off near the opposite end of the planet, they could see one of the gigantic Chitauri mother ships pouring out levithian after levithian like a creature from a Lovecraftian horror story. Peter shuddered and glanced away quickly. He felt as if looking at it for too long would change him, scar him in a way he could never fully process or understand.

The colorful, shifting lanes of hyperspace swallowed them as Peter zipped through the portal, slumping in relief for the first time that afternoon. The others got up from their seats, a far more pressing matter on their minds than something trivial like taking a breather after almost dying ten times over.

And of course, Ronan "I do not_ dance_" Accuser, or whatever his last name was, had everything to do with it.

"Where the hell did that thing come from?" Rocket asked Gamora after a long pause, moving an arm's length away from Ronan to study the lethal circle of metal around his neck. "And why did your blood stop his jerking? This is advanced tech – I've never seen anything like it."

"My father's design," Gamora responded hollowly, no doubt drowning in a sea of unpleasant memories. "It allows him to punish Ronan from a distance, using nothing but his mind. He made variations of this technology to control…the people he wanted to control. I was his daughter, so he built in a condition where my blood and DNA could be used."

"So it's Thanos we have to thank for zombiefying him?" Peter asked, feeling an unexpected pang of sympathy for the former Accuser. Having a severely pissed off Thanos dragging you back from beyond the grave couldn't be sunshine and daisies, no matter how much of an asshole you were.

"It had to be," Gamora replied, her eyes still strangely distant. "No one else in the universe has that level of knowledge, or power."

"I am pleased that Thanos made him suffer," Drax said darkly, looking down at Ronan in the purest loathing. "But his worst tortures are still less than this monster deserves."

"I am Groot," Groot added in agreement.

"So what should we do with him?" Rocket asked, nudging Ronan's emaciated ribs hard with the barrel of his gun. "I don't like the idea of killing someone in his sleep, even him. But it looks like he's not gonna last much longer, as it is."

They all fell silent for a long moment, pondering what to do next. Peter couldn't deny that it would obviously be easier to kill Ronan here and now, and give him the end he deserved while sparing the galaxy and themselves any further trouble. Let Thanos decide what to do with him - after all, Ronan had betrayed the Mad Titan in his quest to destroy Xandar, and should have to live with the consequences.

But at the same time…maniac that he was, Ronan was the last person they knew who had been in contact with Thanos. He could be a valuable source of information, if only they could get him to talk.

(His reluctance to see Ronan die again had nothing to do with the desperation and pain he'd seen in those purple eyes, buried under the accumulated layers of hatred and madness. Nothing at _all._)

"I vote that we keep him, at least for now," Peter said first, breaking the heavy, expectant silence. "He's not exactly a golden retriever, but you know, maybe we can teach him a few new tricks. Besides, if we kill him, couldn't Thanos resurrect him like he did last time? From what just happened with that collar, I'd say he's not quite finished with Ronan yet. I'm sure Ronan has some stories he can tell us about his year in paradise."

"I agree with Quill," Gamora added firmly. "He'd be a prisoner and not a _pet, _but there are some questions that I'd like to ask him. If you guys decide to kill him afterwards, you'll hear no objections from me."

Her shrewd eyes moved over Ronan and lingered on the ridiculously small coat and pants he'd haphazardly pulled on. A woman's clothes, based on the cut and design of the fabric. It was as hilarious as it was puzzling. If Ronan ever woke up, Peter would never let him live this _or _his reaction to the dancing down.

"I am Groot," Groot chimed in, a deep wariness in his had just felt the Kree's strength for himself, and didn't want to have to contend with it again anytime soon.

"We would lock him up," Peter replied persuasively, "in the supply cupboard! And Rocket still has those special restraints from his bounty hunting days. If he goes into psycho "You Stand Accused" mode again, we can just hit him over the head with a metal beam! What do you guys say?"

"I am Groot," the small tree conceded reluctantly.

"I guess so, as long as he doesn't pull another stunt with our tech," Rocket grumbled, before his ears perked up with a sudden idea. "Gamora, can your dad track his location through that collar?"

"I think so. But he'll be occupied until he finds the Infinity Stone – and if that happens, it's all over for the galaxy and us anyway."

_"Exactly,"_ Peter exclaimed, looking searchingly at the last member of the team who had not yet voted. "Drax?" He added, more seriously this time. "What's your vote? Kill him or keep him?"

Drax had moved to stand apart from the four of them, staring off into space with his back turned to Ronan. Perhaps he felt that he had to retreat and distance himself from his family's murderer, or he would be driven to take rash action he would regret later.

Peter couldn't blame him. If Ronan had tortured and killed his family, he would want to do everything in his power to make him bleed.

Drax remained completely still and silent until Peter was shifting around in discomfort and no small amount of shame. It had been a dumb question, hadn't it? Ronan had murdered Drax's little girl and _laughed _about it. What right did he, did _any_ of them have to stand in the way of his vengeance?

The Destroyer turned around just as Peter was opening his mouth to apologize. To their collective shock, Drax's eyes were red and wet – as if he had just been _crying. _

But as he looked at Ronan as one would consider a particularly vile insect, Peter felt a little less like the scum of the Earth. Just a little.

"He can stay, until we obtain the information we need," Drax said quietly, his voice as sharp as the edge of tempered steel, "but when he wakes, he will tell me everything that Thanos did to make him suffer._ In graphic detail._ And then perhaps it will be _my _turn to laugh."

Peter thought that was kind of hardcore, but if anyone deserved to be treated that way, it was Ronan.

"O-kay," Peter replied, nodding in agreement. "I can live with that. We're gonna be in hyperspace for awhile, and in my opinion, the further we get away from Xandar the safer we'll be. In the meantime, I think I should start patching up some of his injuries. If he bleeds out, we won't get the information we need."

"I'll stand guard," Gamora volunteered at once, her gaze fierce and determined. Peter knew that Ronan wouldn't have a moment's peace with her in the room, beginning an interrogation the instant he opened his eyes.

Not that Ronan deserved that consideration, but still - the guy had been though a lot. Maybe he would be less feral with some proper rest and TLC. _Maybe._

"I can handle it," he told her firmly. "Besides, maybe he'll be more open to cooperation if he doesn't feel like he's being ambushed the second he wakes up."

"Fine," Gamora sighed reluctantly. Be careful, Quill," she warned him. "And let me know as soon as he's good to talk."

"Will do," Peter assured her, moving to where Ronan was seated and cautiously unstrapping him. Rocket was at his side quickly, prepared as ever, helping him clap interlocking magnetic cuffs around Ronan's skeletal wrists and ankles.

Peter requested Groot's help with moving Ronan (he didn't dare bother Drax, who had just stormed off to his room to isolate himself). They each grabbed an arm and hauled the Accuser up, dragging him into Peter's room where his medical kit and supplies were located.

Peter looked around the tiny room, his face falling as he realized that there weren't many choices for where to put Ronan. There was the floor or the bed – and the floor was the least sanitary, though not by much. Peter grabbed a clean towel from a drawer and laid it over his dirty sheets as Groot held Ronan upright. It wouldn't protect Ronan's entire body from his germs, but it would have to do for now.

They hefted Ronan up again and set him down carefully, trying not to aggravate the rib that had clearly broken through his skin.

"Thanks for the help, Groot," Peter muttered once he was certain he would need no further assistance moving the surprisingly heavy Kree. "I'm no doctor, but I can take it from here."

"I am Groot," his friend told him, briefly squeezing his shoulder. _Be careful. Call us if you need any help._

Peter promised that he would, his eyes fixed on his bloody, broken and half-dead enemy. It was funny, in a sick way – even starved, bruised and covered in Xandarian blood, Ronan looked a hell of a lot more normal than he did wearing ten pounds of black death paint on his face.

Peter sighed and grabbed a disinfectant wipe, hesitantly reaching out and starting to clean some of the blood off Ronan's forehead. Living with the ravagers actually did have _some _beneficial effects on him – he had often followed the ship's designated "doctor" around as a kid, and had learned a fair amount about emergency medical care as a result.

"Just you and me, buddy," he sighed softly, knowing that besides patching up some surface wounds, there wasn't much he could do for Ronan. "Just you and me."

* * *

><p>Yes, next chapter will involve Ronan waking up as Peter takes care of his injuries. ;)<p>

Something tells me he won't be thrilled about it.


	6. Chapter 6

Gamora had not built her reputation for being the most _diplomatic_ woman in the galaxy; in fact, whenever she had needed something before from a less than forthcoming opponent, she'd simply stabbed, blasted and tortured her way to the answer. She wasn't a _cruel_ person, exactly – rather, she had been taught to use the most ruthless, utilitarian tactics possible by Thanos, and then later on by Ronan.

But over the years she'd discovered that once the agonized screams of her enemies reached a certain pitch and frequency, it became far easier to bend them to her will. A kind smile here, and a touch or a glimpse that lingered just an instant too long there. Once enough blood had been spilled, all she had to worry about was ignoring the turning of her stomach and getting the job done. The alternative, after all, was always far worse.

She didn't think she would be able to use those tactics on Rhomann Dey. To begin with, the Nova Corps commander was hundreds of light years away and was contacting her by a secure transmission. It didn't help that this conversation had been initiated by him on the orders of Nova Prime. Supposedly, the Xandarians wanted to make sure that their guests of honor and the saviors of their planet had survived the Chitauri attack.

Gamora knew better. Despite what public relations for the Nova Empire would have everyone believe, they hadn't become one of the dominant powers in the galaxy by exchanging pleasantries with their subjects_._

Gamora could be cunning when she needed to, but first and foremost she was a warrior. Battles of words and political sleight of hand had never been her strong suit. As the conversation wore on, she was eventually able to tease out the true reason for the check-in and heartfelt expression of 'concern' (genuine on Dey's part, but entirely strategic on Nova Prime's).

Though the Infinity Stone was still in the hands of the Nova Corps, transported away from its hiding place seconds before Thanos' arrival and subsequent slaughter of everyone within a ten-kilometer radius, something else was missing_._

Or rather, _someone _else was missing_._

There had been another variable that day that the Nova had failed to account for – that _all _of them had failed to account for. Dey had described the suspect in suspiciously vague detail – a 'Kree informant, possibly aligned with the Chitauri' who had been flying a 'previously flagged ship' before he was shot down. They still weren't certain whether he had survived the crash or not, but they still hadn't found a body.

Gamora wasn't stupid – she knew that this was Nova Prime's way of deducing Ronan's whereabouts, without completely revealing her knowledge of his identity. But who else could it be but Ronan? For the hundredth time in the past few hours, Gamora wondered _why_ Ronan had risked his life to travel to Xandar with Thanos and the Chitauri only one star way behind. Insane or not, she was sure that Ronan was still strategic enough to run in the _opposite_ direction of Thanos during an escape.

But then again – he _had _come directly to the _Milano_ for revenge, knowing that he was outnumbered and close to death already.

Wearing her sister's clothes.

Marked with a very distinctive black, jagged gash on one cheek that only Nebula's blade could produce.

And wearing a collar that hinted at even deeper, darker depths to her "father's" sadism.

Gamora knew that she had a choice to make, here and now. The Nova Corps had probably scoured the ruins of their capital for Ronan's body, picking through piles of corpses to confirm the death of their most hated enemy (after Thanos himself, of course). If she told them that Ronan was here, on this ship, they would pursue the _Milano _past the far edges of the galaxy until they had him in their custody.

He would probably wish he had never escaped Thanos then.

And then Gamora would never hear Ronan confirm her suspicions about her sister, and why her body was never found on the surface of Xandar a year ago. She would never be able to question him about Thanos' state of mind and his possible plans (and whether they were his next targets).

So Gamora lied to Rhomann Dey and the Nova Empire. She lied as earnestly, innocently, and convincingly as she could. Lying wasn't her strong suit – in fact, with her abilities, it was rarely something she'd ever needed to resort to.

But with the stakes so high, she was able to pull off, in her opinion, an-award winning performance.

_No, of course she hadn't seen a Kree in the Xandarian Capital, of all places – well, maybe she'd caught a brief glimpse of a stumbling, injured blue figure off in the distance, running in the direction of the nearest landing pad. But with all the chaos that had been unfolding around her, she'd blinked and lost track of him. By the time they'd reached their ship, most of that section of the city was ash._

Dey appeared to accept her improvised explanation, and he ended the conversation without much further hassle. Gamora breathed a sigh of relief as she ended the transmission, fairly confident that she'd held up well under a very different kind of interrogation than what she was used to.

Speaking of interrogations, she had a few bones to pick with their Kree guest. Besides the more pressing questions about her sister, several more bloodstained threads of the afternoon were beginning to weave together in her mind.

The Nova Corps hadn't known about Thanos' attack in advance – they were only able to retrieve the Infinity Stone seconds before he'd arrived to claim it. They had even left their own citizens to suffer the Chitauri's assault, scattered and defenseless, which was a decision that would not have been made lightly.

There was only one possible explanation for the direction of the day's events – someone had warned them about Thanos and the imminent attack. An outsider, who had been close enough to Thanos recently to know the specifics of his plans.

Someone who had made the Nova Empire very nervous indeed.

Gamora knew who it was – there was only one possible answer. But she still needed to know _why_ Ronan had betrayed everything he claimed to believe in_._

* * *

><p><em>"How does it feel?" His master whispered mockingly, his thick fingers tracing idle patterns over Ronan's scoured, bloody back. The Other had just finished disciplining him for a minor disobedience by chaining him to the nearest rock and whipping him until the ground was stained black with Kree blood.<em>

_"To be weak and helpless again, entirely at the mercy of someone stronger than you? The Other has told me __**much **__about the curiosities in your mind, boy. In truth, you broke more easily than I expected. But I didn't know that you had been broken before."_

_Ronan shuddered deeply at Thanos' touch, his tremors prompting the Mad Titan to laugh softly in satisfaction. He despised the false tenderness even more than the humiliation he always suffered before it. Thanos became this way from time to time – soft, contemplative, and even more profoundly cruel. Ronan would take his violence over his words any day._

_But Thanos had addressed him, so he expected an answer. The Titan wasn't one to waste words, or to repeat a question twice._

_"I was weak then…and I'm weak again now," Ronan agreed, his voice barely audible, and shaking enough to make his words nearly incomprehensible. But he knew that Thanos would catch every syllable – he always did. Ronan also knew that he would suffer for what he said next. It didn't make much of a difference – suffering was all that he would ever know in this place._

_"But I endured…and I grew stronger day by day as the murderers of my people celebrated their victory. I waited…__**patiently**__…until the day when I could finally take vengeance…. and when I finally tracked them all down…I executed them with my own hands. That was how I…became Supreme Accuser."_

_Thanos had gone very still, which was never a good sign. Ronan knew that he would either erupt in sudden violence next, or drive him further to the brink of insanity with words that cut deeper than knives._

_After a pause in which he counted each of his heartbeats, the Mad Titan began to laugh long and low. Option two, then. Ronan wanted to sink through the surface of the planet and spiral deep into the Void, where he would drift endlessly for an eternity._

_But even that small comfort would be a lie, because death was only a minor inconvenience for a being like Thanos. Ronan knew that he would never be free again, even if his heart stopped beating._

_"If you are suggesting that things will turn in your favor again, boy, you __**are**__ delusional," Thanos chuckled in genuine amusement, before tensing without warning and wrenching Ronan's head up violently, forcing him to meet his eyes._

_"You are a weak, pitiful creature. The sole purpose of your existence is to serve as an example to others who would oppose me," Thanos hissed, and Ronan broke under the weight of the truth in his gaze._

_"I know," he whispered in defeat. Who was he trying to deceive? He could never hope for anything better than this, as long as Thanos was alive. Even death was considered to be too merciful a fate for him._

_"I keep you close because seeing you writhe pleases me, but eventually I will want a new toy," Thanos continued cruelly. "So when you're used up, perhaps I'll consider giving you back to the Nova Corps. I'm certain they can find a use for you, too." _

_Thanos held his hand out expectantly, which was dripping with dark blood – his blood._

_"Why do you continue to resist?" the Titan asked him softly, stroking his cheek. "This is your fate. You will never be free again."_

_Upon hearing those words from the most powerful being in existence, Ronan felt something inside him shrivel and die. He leaned forward obediently and began to lick each drop of his blood from his master's fingers._

* * *

><p>Peter sighed in relief as he bandaged Ronan's cheek, thanking his lucky stars that the cheap painkillers he'd administered hadn't worn off yet. He had just finished treating the external injuries he could reach, and had been paranoid beyond belief the entire time that Ronan would wake up, start struggling and accusing as he was known to do, and injure himself further.<p>

For the last two hours, Peter had cataloged, sterilized and mended every wound that was within his ability to repair. He had started with the broken, protruding rib, and had carefully shifted it back into place using imaging equipment to make sure that he wasn't skewering Ronan's heart in the process. That had been fun, but hey – at least the bleeding had stopped.

Then there were the long, weeping gashes on Ronan's back, which looked like leftover marks from some kind of whip. Those had been a joy, and would continue to be a joy until the infection was gone and Peter could use his dermal regenerator to seal up the skin. Shifting Ronan by himself had been an exercise in control, but Peter was able to pull it off without injuring either party.

There had been the countless small cuts on Ronan's hands and feet, which were almost healed but could still pose a problem if they became infected. He'd cleaned and sealed them in a matter of minutes.

Not everything had been that straightforward, however. There was also a thin, dark gash on Ronan's cheek that had caused Peter endless frustration. He'd sterilized the cut thoroughly and attempted to seal the skin using the regenerator, but the injury refused to close after several attempts at the highest setting. It was practically unheard of.

After the equipment failure, Peter had attempted to patch up the wound using the good old-fashioned Terran fix of a little needle and thread. He'd sewed with shaking fingers, expecting Ronan's violet eyes to shoot open at any moment – after all, he had been shoving a needle through layers of the guy's face.

Thankfully however, Zombie Ronan was down for the count. Peter had admired his work, noting that while he wasn't a seamstress, those stitches had looked pretty damned good.

They had unraveled about thirty seconds after he finished, and his swearing caused Groot and Rocket to force their way into the room, fully prepared to deliver another epic beatdown on the Kree Accuser. Peter didn't think he'd yelled _that_ loudly, but perhaps they had been waiting and listening by the door the entire time. If that was even remotely true, then he was secretly touched by the display of loyalty. A year ago, Rocket would have sealed him inside with Ronan, hoping they tore each other to pieces as he stole the ship.

Convincing them to leave and resetting the locks had eaten up another ten minutes, and now here they were again – just him and the slumbering blue maniac. Peter didn't have access to the most advanced medical equipment in the galaxy; in fact, the diagnostic scanner he was holding had been picked up cheap during a run to a supply planet. But it was still pretty accurate, and light years ahead of any technology that was available on Earth.

And the internal picture it was painting didn't look good for Ronan – at all.

The Kree had clearly been starved on Thanos' planet – that much could be gleaned from a single glance at his drawn, nearly emaciated form. But Peter hadn't guessed how serious the malnourishment was until he saw the readings flash in red across the small screen, indicating severe muscle loss and vitamin deficiencies. It would take a long time for Ronan to get back to a healthy Kree weight, and he likely wouldn't be able to eat solid food for a number of days.

A number of his bones were fractured and misaligned, the result of multiple breaks that had never been properly treated. Several of the smaller bones in Ronan's arms and legs had fused out of place, and Peter was shocked that Ronan was able to walk at all. It was a testament to how tough and resilient the Kree were, but it still had to be damn painful. He couldn't fix that here – he'd have to find a real doctor who knew more about Kree anatomy and was willing to work on a belligerent, fanatical nutjob.

There was something else present in the readings, too. Peter didn't understand what the internal damage was from at first, and he was about to make a mental note to maybe ask Ronan later when his eyes drifted back to the ring of metal circling the Kree's neck.

Comprehension hit him like a punch to the gut, and as Peter put two and two together he sank into a chair by the bed, feeling dizzy and sick.

He'd figured that Thanos was a sick bastard, and from what little Gamora had told him about her time in his realm, the Titan had a bit of an obsession with making people suffer. Ronan hadn't emerged unscathed after his betrayal, not that Peter would have expected him to. Those fading-but-still-visible scars on his lips and the nail marks on his hands and feet didn't exactly indicate that he'd been staying at a four-star galactic resort.

But rape? Peter couldn't even begin to fathom that. He wouldn't be at all surprised if Ronan's mind was as scarred from the ordeal as his body. And if he blamed Peter for his defeat and abuse at Thanos' hands, it was no big surprise that he'd stopped here after his escape for bloody revenge, even as his body was finally breaking down.

Peter closed his eyes, gripping his head so hard that it hurt. He would never wish such a fate on his worst enemy, and Ronan had never even been an _enemy _really_, _at least not in a personal sense like with Drax. Ronan was just a crazy guy he had fought against. But now he was back, broken possibly beyond repair from a little singing and dancing and the Power of Friendship (and the Infinity Stone probably played a small role, too).

He had no idea how to begin proceeding in handling this.

"What are you waiting for, Star Lord?"

The harsh, bitter whisper that filled his ears nearly made Peter keel over backwards in surprise and fall to the floor with a clang of metal folding chair. But fortunately, he wasn't _quite_ that easily shaken. After taking a deep, calming breath he opened his eyes to face the next hurdle of the day.

Death Metal Smurf was awake again.

"Um….hey," Peter replied awkwardly, forcing himself to meet Ronan's brilliant violet eyes, which were still unfocused from the strong painkillers. But still crazy. Still _really _crazy.

When he had first seen the Kree up close a year ago, he'd wondered fleetingly if the unique eye color was a side-effect of the Stone's influence. Apparently not, as Ronan hadn't been anywhere near that particular artefact of doom in a long time. In any case, the color was striking and something that was not easily forgotten.

"How are you feeling?"

It was a dumb question, and a pretty shitty thing to ask someone in Ronan's situation. But Peter really didn't know how else to break the ice after laying the guy on his bed and patching up his injuries by hand. There was also the issue of killing him but _not _killing him exactly one year ago. That was a discussion Peter was certain he'd _love_ having.

"Are you waiting for your friends?" Ronan rasped, ignoring him, an ironic smile twisting his face. His eyes were resigned and empty, and Peter didn't think it was due only to the effects of the drugs.

That was the scary part.

"Gamora, the talking tree, the rat, and the so-called Destroyer? A lively crowd, to be sure," Ronan continued, his voice becoming strangely toneless. "They will love seeing me writhe. But I suppose you _are _the type of man who craves an audience at all times…even for this."

Um…._what?_ What the hell was that supposed to mean? Peter frowned as he studied Ronan, the sick feeling in his stomach intensifying as he realized he'd left the guy almost naked. He'd had to shred the clothes apart to reach his injuries. But did Ronan understand that, or did he think Peter had far less benign intentions?

"Hey, um…you look a bit cold – sorry about that, bud. The ship can get a bit chilly in deep space," Peter explained nervously, seeing Ronan tilt his head in confusion. "Let me grab you one of those blankets next to you on the bed, okay?"

Ronan didn't respond, and opted to keep staring at him with those big, eerie eyes.

Peter stood and slowly moved towards the bed, never breaking eye contact with Ronan. The Accuser was watching him so intently that he felt as if two laser beams were burning holes through his retinas and out the back of his skull.

He grabbed one of the cleaner blankets by the foot of the bed and tossed it over Ronan, who looked at him in barely-disguised disbelief before covering himself as best as he could, his movements still mostly restricted by Rocket's shackles.

"How long have you been awake?" Peter asked as he sat down again, an idea forming in his mind. Ronan didn't seem to be surprised or disoriented at all. Had the painkillers really been enough to keep him out for that long?

"Long enough," the Kree sneered, pulling listlessly at his shackles. "Patching me up just so you can tear me apart again – how pragmatically cruel! I must admit that I've never used that particular technique on a captive…but I'm curious to see how well it works."

Peter's stomach turned, and he wanted nothing more than to look away from Ronan's eerie, hollow gaze. But he had a feeling that he would never be able to reach him if he did that.

"Okay, let me get a couple of things straight," Peter began, trying hard to sound convincing and reasonable without being condescending. But Ronan was traumatized – who knew how he'd react to assurances? Besides, he was completely insane.

"I'm not healing your injuries as part of some drawn out bait-and-switch torture fantasy. I'm really not that ambitious or devious of a guy. And if someone was just gonna cut you to ribbons again, healing you really wouldn't be worth my time. 'Cuz I'm lazy enough as it is. You're _welcome_, by the way," Peter added, seeing Ronan's brow begin to crease in confusion and exasperation.

Always a good sign, especially with this guy. At least it was progress over _"I will sip blood through your puny Terran skull" _and so on, etc.

"Secondly," Peter added firmly, "nobody on this ship is going to hurt you unless you try to hurt us first. Which I really don't recommend. Don't try anything. Just don't even think about it – and we'll all be cool, okay? Sunshine and daisies, or whatever metaphor represents happiness on your planet. I promise."

The Kree was looking at him as if he'd never seen a stranger creature in the entirety of the galaxy. Perhaps he hadn't. Peter shrugged and stood again, walking over to the sink and unwrapping a fresh plastic cup. He turned the faucet on slowly and deliberately, so Ronan could see everything he was doing.

"So, I bet you haven't had anything to eat or drink in a while," Peter said awkwardly as he returned to the bedside, wanting to shrivel up and blow away under Ronan's silent, judging stare. The Accuser was studying him like he was some kind of exotic space bug splattered on his windshield. A spectacle that was disgusting and irritating, yet strangely captivating at the same time.

"Um, you're gonna have to take baby sips," he explained even more awkwardly, his hands shaking slightly as he held the cup up to Ronan's lips. "It's just water, but we don't want your stomach reacting badly or anything."

Ronan slowly parted his lips, allowing Peter to tip a small amount of water inside. Though Peter honestly expected Ronan just to spit it back in his face, the Kree swallowed slowly, his wide eyes never leaving the Terran's.

"There we go," Peter exclaimed over-enthusiastically. "That's a good start. Tell me when you want more."

Ronan frowned as if he was waiting for something. After several long, tense moments during which they stared at each other, never breaking eye contact, the Kree's eyes narrowed in suspicion and a flicker of panic crossed his face.

"What kind of twisted game are you playing?" he demanded loudly, his fear plain in his voice for the first time that afternoon. "That water wasn't _drugged. _Do you think you can trick me by feigning generosity and babbling nonsense? Tell your friends to come out and face me! If you are going to punish me, then _punish_ me. But not this…this false kindness. Not…"

Ronan trailed off and looked away, shuddering and trying to force back tears. Peter felt like the scum of the Earth, and he wondered what he'd done wrong. He was just trying to make sure that Ronan wasn't dehydrated, for God's sake!

But after thinking about it from the Kree's perspective, the even the most minor kindnesses probably did seem way out of place. Peter honestly wanted to give the guy a (quick, cautious) hug, but that would definitely freak Ronan out more. Perhaps simply telling the truth would be the best strategy, here.

Either this would turn out okay (yeah, right), or he would fuck things up even more (a far more likely outcome).

_Here goes nothing._

"Look," Peter began after a pause, sighing and sinking into the chair again. "I'm gonna be completely honest, here. I'm not fucking with you, Ronan. That's not my style, and I truly don't have any personal vendetta against you. But there are four other people on this ship that hate your guts, and for good reasons. Let's start with Gamora. Her dad basically gave her and her sister away to you as property, so you could finish molding them into living weapons. Admit it - that was kind of a dick move on your part.

"Then there's Groot, the talking tree, and I don't know how you missed his name 'cuz "I am Groot" is literally all he ever says. But whatever – you killed him. Indirectly I guess, but dead is dead. And the _rodent _you mentioned has a name too – Rocket. _Rocket_ despises you because you killed Groot, and he's not gonna forgive you for that anytime soon. And Drax…well, that's self-explanatory, man. You murdered his family for no reason, and had a walk in the park doing it, too. He's in his room stewing, and once he comes out he'll probably still want to string you up by your intestines."

Ronan had emerged from his inner abyss to look at him again, and for the first time that day, it appeared that _something _Peter said had reached him.

"But we all voted you could stay, not because we're your biggest fans, but because we can _use_ you. You're the last person here who saw Thanos, and you clearly knew enough to escape his realm and find us on Xandar."

Ronan scoffed, but at least now he was responding in a less erratic, frightening way.

"If you believe that I will tell you and your band of misfits _anything,_ Terran, even under the worst tortures imaginable, you are fatally wrong. The second you let down your guard, I will deliver Kree justice on -"

"Yeah, yeah, _justice blah, blah, blah," _Peter interrupted, rolling his eyes. "I've heard this spiel before, dude. And you know what? I'm not completely buying what you're selling. You could have sliced and diced me into a hundred pieces by the time the others were able to break into this ship. Hell, you could have cut my throat afterwards just to prove a point as my friends watched me choke on my own blood. Yet here I am, and here you are."

"You truly believe that?"

Ronan smiled wickedly, showing all of his sharp black teeth. It was feral and dangerous and pretty damned scary. But Peter had been telling the truth – and he wasn't fooled by the verbal threats. If Ronan had wanted him dead, he would be dead, and not sitting here having a debate with a lunatic.

Ronan seemed like the kind of guy who could and did walk the walk, but ultimately liked to talk about it more. Yondu was usually the opposite as far as that was concerned. Dealing with Yondu was unpredictable and precarious. But Peter suspected that handling Ronan's mood swings would be far easier.

Ronan wasn't motivated by money, but by his ideals. As long as he could keep him talking, Peter figured that he would live to a ripe old age.

"If you truly believe that I'm harmless, then what's the point of keeping me shackled?" Ronan asked challengingly, as if he didn't quite believe that Peter would rise to the bait.

Peter shrugged. Evidently Ronan didn't know him very well yet.

"All right," he conceded, standing. "You have a point, I guess. But you have to promise to be on your best behavior if I take those off."

Ronan stared at him in disbelief. "You aren't serious, Star Lord. Even you are not that much of a fool."

"Actually, I totally am," Peter shot back, reaching for Ronan's wrist. The Kree flinched as Peter's fingers made contact with his skin, but his eyes widened in shock as the Terran unlocked the DNA-coded shackles with a touch.

Peter removed the other set on Ronan's ankles without hesitating. The Kree had gone completely still by the time Peter was finished, but instead of looking like the cat who was about to dine on the canary, he appeared more conflicted than ever before.

There were a dozen emotions swirling like a tempest in Ronan's violet eyes, and Peter wondered which one would consume him first. His fear at facing this new, bizarre scenario? The lingering suspicion and mistrust of an old enemy? The rage that burned hot enough to consume solar systems, fueled by a year of the deepest pain? His injured pride, which he wasn't even attempting to disguise anymore?

Ronan looked at him for a long moment, completely lost, as if he was waiting for Peter to give him a hint of how to react next. Then something in his gaze shifted without warning, and the next thing Peter knew, he was pinned against the wall with a medical scalpel pressed against his throat, the wind knocked out of his lungs.

Okay, ten points to whoever voted for the rage, then. And _damn_, the guy was freakishly strong for someone who had been literally bent out of shape.

Ronan's eyes were wild and desperate, and judging by the tears spilling over and running down his cheeks, he was not a happy Smurf.

"Hey buddy," Peter said as calmly as possible, knowing that he could activate the stun cords in his wrist band as a last resort. One hundred thousand volts – but he really didn't want to handle the situation like that. He'd honestly pretty much set himself up for this, so now he would have to deal with Ronan's impulsive violence as constructively as possible.

Definitely a trait to keep in mind for future interactions.

"Be quiet," Ronan told him softly, his manic eyes almost pleading with Peter. "Simply…be silent now, Star Lord. For a moment, I thought you were as cunning and sadistic as my master with your mind games. But it is clear to me now that you are simply insane. In any case, you must pay in blood for what you've done."

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," Peter told him quietly, only because Ronan strangely didn't seem as if he was enjoying the prospect of cutting his throat.

"But I _do,"_ Ronan shouted back, his voice carrying, Peter was sure, far past the thin walls of the room. The others would be breaking down the door in mere moments, if they weren't on their way already.

"You saw my injuries, Star Lord. You _know_ what he did to me! You took my life, and because of you, he was able to take…" Ronan trailed off, his eyes clouded with a thousand horrors, too choked up to finish. His hand was shaking so violently that he could barely hold the blade.

"I never intended for that to happen to you," Peter implored, pulled undertow against his will by the pain in Ronan's eyes, unable to look away from the Kree for a second. By now, he had completely forgotten about using the stun cords. "Ronan, I _swear_ to you, if I had known, I would have flown out to Thanos' realm myself and smuggled you out in my ship. _Look at me_ – kill me if you have to, but at least acknowledge that I'm telling the truth."

Ronan nodded sadly in agreement. "You are a fool, Peter Quill, but at least you're a kind one. But unfortunately for us, you misjudged me. I am an Accuser of the Kree, and I must deliver all sentences upon the Accused without mercy. It is the sole reason for my existence. I am…sorry."

Peter heard his friends' frantic voices on the other side of the door, and he knew that in seconds it would slide open, the electronic locks overridden with ease by Rocket.

Nothing would stop them from killing Ronan after that.

"Peter Quill, you stand accused of crimes against the Kree Empire," Ronan recited, his voice dull and his eyes distant. But his hand was steady again. "I hereby sentence you to death…"

Peter wasn't entirely certain why he did the colossally stupid thing he did next. Maybe it was because he had nothing left to lose at this point. Maybe it was to shield Ronan once his friends burst into the room, guns blazing. Maybe it was because the guy just looked so damn _miserable_.

But in any case, what was done was done. Peter reached out, his fingers making contact with Ronan's boney sides. He ignored the scalpel at his jugular and pulled the adorably confused Kree Executioner into a hug.

The door slid open a second later and Peter heard his friends rush into the room, his face buried in Ronan's shoulder, the scalpel against his throat agitating the same cuts from a few hours ago.

"Stand down, Ronan!"

"I AM GROOOOT!"

"Get ready to die, you murderous scumba-"

Rocket trailed off, his voice stopping cold. Peter could only imagine why, and he could picture the look of collective _what the fuck, Quill_ on their faces even more clearly. What he wouldn't give to see _Ronan's _face right now – okay, on second thought, maybe not.

For a long moment, Peter didn't hear a sound, and he was pretty sure that no one breathed, especially him and Ronan.

Then all that filled the charged silence was the metallic clang of a scalpel hitting the floor, unused, and the sobs of one very, justifiably overwhelmed Kree Accuser.

* * *

><p>Dey watched as Irani Rael, more widely known as Nova Prime replayed the transmission again, Gamora's face magnified by five hundred percent on the screen.<p>

"I don't know, ma'am," Dey hedged. "She looked honest to me. She seems like a nice enough girl, if you can get past the barbed edges."

"Look more closely, Commander," his superior officer sighed. "She puts on an impressive performance, but it's too calculated, too airbrushed, too _textbook. _It's as if she borrowed _How to Tell a Lie 101._ The fact that she's hiding something is obvious to anyone who has spent any time in politics."

"But do you think she could be hiding _him, _ma'am? Weren't they enemies after she betrayed him? And what if he's dead – that landing pad was nothing but a hole in the ground by the time we got there. I would like to think that's the most probable explanation."

"So would I, Commander," Rael replied, her expression troubled. "But Ronan is something else entirely - he alters outcomes. I don't know why he warned us today, but I intend to find out."

"From him, I expect?" Dey asked evenly, knowing already that his next mission was going to fucking suck.

"In the flesh," Rael said firmly, the steel in her eyes embodying the title of _Nova Prime_ more, Dey was certain, than anyone else who had landed this job before her.

"You will personally lead a strike team to comb every corner of the galaxy. Use whatever means necessary to find the _Milano_ and that blue bastard, and bring them all back to me _alive."_

"Yes, ma'am," Dey replied crisply.

If he came back from this alive, he was going to take a _long_ holiday with his wife and daughter to somewhere very tropical and nice. And ask for a well-deserved raise.


	7. Chapter 7

For a long time, his friends simply stared in absolute, earsplitting silence. Peter couldn't blame them – after all, if this wasn't happening to him right now, he wouldn't be able to believe his eyes, either.

He was _hugging _Ronan the Accuser, and apparently he was still alive. How that was even possible was a conundrum Peter felt the galaxy's best minds could spend centuries debating, without ever reaching a definite conclusion.

Ronan's arms were stiff at his sides, as if he didn't quite understand how to return the hug, a possibility that made Peter unexpectedly yet profoundly sad. Didn't the Kree ever hug one another? Had Ronan ever known a kind embrace from anyone, or had he been sculpted to be the hard, cruel and uncompromising man he was since birth?

In any case, the Ronan they were seeing now had little in common with the merciless force of destruction that had nearly burned Xandar to ashes one year ago. The Accuser's face was buried in the soft fabric of Peter's T-shirt, and his soft sniffles and sobs seemed to be amplified by a thousand times in the otherwise deathly-silent room.

But Peter knew that after Ronan had time to process what just happened, he probably _would_ try to kill him again. If Ronan was any indication, he had the impression that the expression of emotion aside from anger was severely frowned upon by the Kree. Ronan would probably blame him for wrecking his death metal image, or something, and attempt to tear his 'puny' head from his shoulders again.

And fail, of course.

So be it – it didn't mean the guy needed that hug any less.

"Sssssshhhh," Peter murmured, gently rubbing Ronan's bandaged back, "it's okay, buddy – you're safe here. Better to get it all out now than continue to let it build up forever."

The Kree let out a fresh sob, his tears soaking through the thin fabric of Peter's T-shirt. Peter finally chanced opening his eyes and tilted his chin slightly where it was resting on Ronan's shoulder so that he could see the faces of his friends.

Gamora looked as if she wanted to murder him right then and there, picking up from where Ronan had just left off. Peter could almost hear her silent admonition now:

"_Quill, you reckless, unbelievable moron. You left him __**unshackled**__?"_

Rocket's mouth was wide open, his jaw proverbially hitting the floor in disbelief. His gun was still aimed at Ronan, but as Peter made eye contact Rocket hesitantly lowered the weapon to his side.

Groot was staring at them curiously with his big, black eyes. Peter watched without blinking as the small tree slowly approached them without making a sound, his expression softening as he studied the sobbing Accuser.

Groot reached out with a branch before Peter could warn him, hesitating an instant before gently touching Ronan's shoulder in support. The Kree froze immediately, tensing and starting to pull away as he remembered the brutal beating Groot had given him only hours earlier.

"Hey," Peter said quickly, holding onto Ronan as tightly as he could, "hey, it's okay, man. Groot's cool – he's only trying to help."

"I am Groot," Groot confirmed, in a much softer, gentler tone than he had used only a minute before when bursting through the door.

Ronan stayed frozen for a long moment before relaxing in Peter's arms, sniffling as he tried to collect himself. Groot's branches twined loosely around them both, transforming their private hug into a small group hug.

"Aw, geez," Rocket grumbled in disgust. "Just look at yourselves. I'm never gonna be able to unsee _this."_

"I guess you'll just have to deal with it, then," Peter murmured, not feeling much sympathy for his trigger-happy friend.

"Well, shit."

Peter heard an additional pair of footsteps approaching from the hall, the gait heavy but sure. He swore to himself as Drax appeared in the doorway and Ronan pulled away, breaking their embrace abruptly. But based on the look of hurt and betrayal on the Destroyer's face, he had seen the last part of their group hug in no uncertain terms.

Now that their embrace had ended, Peter couldn't help but notice that Ronan was almost naked. Crying was probably already an unforgivable offense in Ronan's book, and crying in shredded women's clothing had to be the Kree embodiment of shame itself. Peter discreetly reached for the blanket Ronan had discarded, wrapping it around the Accuser's shoulders as carefully as possible.

He shifted around awkwardly as Ronan wiped his eyes and looked up warily for the first time. The first thing he noticed was that Ronan was not a pretty crier. His deep lavender eyes were puffy and red, and red and purple really did _not_ go well together in this instance.

The second thing he noticed was that Ronan looked completely, utterly lost, and shaken to the core as if he was still trying to figure out what had just happened. That hug had completely blown his composure to bits.

Hugging was apparently Secret Weapon Number Two against fanatical Kree rage - another thing to keep in mind.

"What is happening in here?" Drax asked, finally breaking his silence. Peter resisted the urge to wince as he heard how harsh and barely controlled the warrior's voice was. He had a feeling that Drax would do nothing to defuse this already precarious situation.

"Did this monster attempt to injure you, Star Lord? I will rip him limb from – "

"Nope, all good," Peter practically shouted, noticing how any hint of vulnerability or tenderness in Ronan's expression had vanished. He was looking at Drax like a cornered predator looked at its hunter before making a defiant last stand. Peter subtly reached for the scalpel on the floor with his toe, kicking it behind him under the bed (not that Ronan needed a weapon to fight – he _was _a living weapon).

"Say, you know what?" he continued quickly, carefully reaching for Ronan's tense shoulder and squeezing it once gently. "I think we could all use some time to rest and relax. We're not gonna come up with any sort of strategy with emotions running this high. So let's just all…maybe take a breather before we land and regroup. And, uh…I'm sure Ronan would appreciate a bath, and some real clothes. _I'd_ certainly appreciate it if he did."

His friends were exchanging glances, obviously communicating to each other just how crazy they thought he was.

"Everyone will be relieved to know that the Infinity Stone is in safe hands, at least for now, according to the Nova Corps," Gamora added as Peter started in the direction of the bathroom, steering a strangely passive, unresisting Ronan along as quickly as possible. Though Gamora was addressing all of them, he couldn't help but notice that she was looking directly at the Kree. "I'm sure you understand why they were so eager to contact us. We'll talk soon."

"Um, great," Peter added, wondering what exactly Gamora wanted to grill Ronan about. "Bathroom's right over here on this side of the hallway, bro. If you're lucky, there might even be some hot w –"

"Ronan," Drax interjected loudly, causing the Kree in question, who was currently allowing himself to be ushered out of the room to stop cold in his tracks, his back still turned to Drax.

_**Fuuuuck**__, _Peter lamented silently, sensing that Drax was about to say something that was fully justified yet incredibly hurtful. How was he supposed to react in that situation?_ Fuckityfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuc –_

"Your sobbing is _pathetic."_

Ronan flinched almost imperceptibly, catching the reference to his old boast and not enjoying the ironic repetition in the least.

"It's okay," Peter whispered as he practically tugged the Accuser as far away from Drax as possible. "Don't worry about him, just think of that warm water. And the bubbles! And maybe even a bubble wand, if we have one – "

"I'm not a child, Star Lord," Ronan growled in contempt as they stepped into the small bathroom, his irritation doing nothing to disguise his deep despondency. Peter struggled to meet the other man's swollen eyes, but Ronan was ducking his every attempt. Once again, he was left to wonder just how profound of a mark Thanos had left on Ronan's mind.

Ronan needed an actual doctor who could knit bone, repair muscle and make clinical diagnoses far better than he could. His body would heal in time, and assuming he lived long enough, perhaps he would even recover completely. But his mind? Peter was no psychologist, but he'd experienced enough in life to know that healing the mind was a bit more complicated. And Ronan hadn't exactly been playing with a full deck to begin with.

Peter emerged from his trance as he realized that Ronan was staring expectantly at him again with those big, haunting eyes as he clutched his blanket tightly around him. Peter wondered what manner of thoughts were running through the Kree's head. Was he waiting for permission to begin? Or was he waiting for some new deception, or sadistic punishment?

"Quill, can I have a word," Gamora told him brusquely from the door. Peter jumped four feet in the air (his estimate, not exaggerated at all), and shot Ronan a quick smile as he stepped back into the hall to join Gamora, closing the bathroom door behind him.

"Feel free to get started, bro. I'll be back in just a sec."

Gamora sighed deeply and crossed her arms, leaning back against the wall in exhaustion. Her nerves were as frayed as his were, and if Thanos continued his pursuit of the Stone, Peter knew that things would only get bloodier and more hardcore.

"Are you sure you know what you're getting into, Quill?" She asked him softly, her eyes weary and older than her years. "I see how you look at him, so allow me to give you some advice. He's not a pet, and he's not someone that can be _fixed_. He tried to kill you less than five minutes ago, after you conveniently _unshackled _him."

He already had a feeling that Gamora was never going to let that particular oversight go.

"Uh, fair point – but you tried to kill me too when we first met," Peter reminded her, his tone unexpectedly defensive. "And I know I can't _fix _him – I'm not a miracle worker, here. But I'm pretty damn sure that if he hasn't killed me yet, after having every opportunity, he's not gonna accomplish it anytime soon."

"When I was training under him, after I was given to his service by Thanos," Gamora continued, her voice hollow, "he used to make me watch every execution for its 'educational value.' Do you know how the Kree execute their criminals, Quill?"

Peter shook his head, unsure of where this was going but knowing that Gamora was speaking of something that must be pretty brutal, if it freaked even her out.

"Well, it varies," she mused, smiling darkly. "Usually the Accuser simply shoots them and calls it a day. Killing is a requirement of their position, but most of them don't _enjoy _it. But Ronan, on the other hand – Ronan doesn't do anything by halves. He had his Universal Weapon, and he took those ancient Kree teachings about destroying an enemy's head _very _literally. They eventually stopped cleaning the room where he worked, because the blood and brains on the walls were splattered on too thick to ever fully remove."

Peter's stomach turned – he did _not_ need that image in his head. He was conflicted enough about his treatment of Ronan without having to hear the details of his past brutal murders. But of course, there was no escaping that side of Ronan, either, as there was a living reminder on the ship by the name of Drax. And the more Gamora told him, the more he realized how traumatic her years serving under Ronan must have been.

"I'll be careful," Peter promised, before lowering his voice even further, on the off chance that Ronan was listening to their conversation through the closed door. He seemed far too direct to be the eavesdropping type of guy, but who knew for sure – he _had_ faked unconsciousness a good part of the time when Peter was patching up his injuries.

"You know what Thanos did to him, right?" Peter asked softly. "And I'm not taking about the nail marks or the fractured bones. Do you know how he _broke _him?"

"From the moment I saw him," she sighed, looking down.

"Then understand that I'm not trying to be his best friend or anything. I'm simply trying to make things easier for him, in the hopes that he'll make things easier for us. That's _it."_

Gamora frowned before nodding in resignation, knowing that he wasn't about to budge at all in his side of things. "Be careful, Quill. And if I'm the one who'll have to pick up your corpse from the bathroom, I'll give you back to the stars by way of the airlock."

"Gee, thanks," he grumbled as he turned, his hand on the doorknob. He really hoped that Ronan hadn't locked him out, because there was no way was he leaving him alone by himself, unstable and unsupervised.

"Oh, and Quill?"

"Yes, mother?"

"_Never_ think of him as broken. That's your first mistake – don't let it be your last."

* * *

><p>Ronan watched as the clear water flowed from the faucet into the basin, so different from the blue Xandarian blood he had become accustomed in bathing in, at least over the past few years. He realized with a measure of numb surprise that his last bath was on the day he 'died' exactly one year ago.<p>

_Your sobs are pathetic._

Though was referring to the destruction of his old body as _death_ truly accurate? He'd never faded into nothingness or experienced any kind of afterlife. But what remained of him as he drifted among the stars had been enough for Thanos to drag him back to life, reorganizing a billion billion scattered atoms back to their old patterns in nanoseconds, in no time at all. So here he was, technically alive once again – the same, yet completely different.

_Your sobs are __**pathetic**__._

He could hear them conversing about him in hushed tones through the closed door, even over the sound of the running water. What many species forgot was that the Kree were not only strong – they also possessed exceptional senses. Millions of years of genetic engineering had brought his species to the zenith of their evolution. He was no exception, especially as a member of a noble house.

But was there any fundamental difference between him and Star Lord, or him and Drax? Despite his strength, Thanos had torn his body apart with ease, as if it were a game. As if he was nothing more than meat, an amalgam of fractured bones, torn ligaments and broken skin.

(And despite their hushed, cautious words, he could hear it in their voices - they _pitied _him).

_**Your sobs are PATHETIC**_

Ronan leaned against the wall for support, clutching his blanket around him as tightly as possible as he forced back fresh tears. What was he waiting for – why was he actively going along with Quill's charade? He knew he would never be free. The collar around his neck still hummed, and Thanos' methodical fury was looming in the back of his mind. The Mad Titan was planning something, and as soon as the pieces on his chessboard shifted in the right direction -

The door opened abruptly and Ronan was forced out of his trance, watching warily as Peter Quill stepped back into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He wrapped his blanket tighter around his shoulders, still not quite trusting the Terran and his bizarre ways. What did he hope to gain from all of this, besides information?

Ronan stood in silence, feeling absolutely ridiculous as he waited for some hint of what to do next. Was Quill planning on standing there and watching as he stripped down and took a bath? Granted, the Terran probably didn't trust him to be anywhere alone on his ship, and that was justified. But what if Star Lord had _another_, less innocent motive? He'd seen firsthand how Thanos had violated him, and he had already propositioned him twice with those absurd dances.

_What if these kindnesses are not kindnesses at all, but merely another means to use me?_

"Hey," Star Lord said awkwardly, his eyes slightly more reserved, slightly more distant. "Um…are you waiting for something? The bubble bath's on that shelf. I guess you could take a shower if you wanted, but I think a bath would be easier for you at this point."

"Do you have to stay?" he asked, watching Star Lord intently. "I can manage by myself."

"I know, bro," the Terran replied, a shadow of discomfort crossing his face. "But I really don't want to leave you alone in here. First of all, you're injured and even if you think you're okay something could still happen. Secondly, you're a tech whiz and it wouldn't surprise me if you could hijack my ship through the bathroom. So the answer is yes, someone has gotta stay. But don't mind me – I'm not creeping on you or anything. Just do your thing, and try _not_ to splash me."

Ronan stared as Star Lord sat down on the closed toilet seat lid several paces away and pulled a strange, primitive-looking device out of one of his pockets. The Accuser watched, bewildered as the Terran pulled two circles of plastic and rubber over his ears, connected by a band that rested on the top of his head.

He was looking forward at the wall, his foot tapping in rhythm with _something, _so Ronan felt slightly better about letting his blanket drop and stepping out of the remains of Nebula's shredded pants. He didn't think that Star Lord was a violent man, at least based on their interactions so far. Even if he tried to use brute force, Ronan was confident he could overpower the Terran in a straight fight. But these kindnesses…

…they were slowly but surely wearing down his resolve. Ronan was ashamed to admit to himself that he craved more of Star Lord's bewildering smiles and comforting embraces. Maybe he was simply weak, or perhaps there was something fundamentally different about the Terran that made him react in a completely uncharacteristic way. Ronan suspected that it was something chemical, perhaps some strange pheromone that the Terran gave off during his primitive dances.

It was disgusting and disturbing, and it was slowly clouding his mind and subverting his will – making him _weak. _Ronan vowed that he wouldn't forget his pact with Nebula, or his campaign to protect his people. Star Lord would not ensnare him, no matter how many kindnesses and alien dances he heaped on him.

He was still a prisoner here, and he wasn't about to forget his mission to change that.

Ronan grabbed the bottle of bubble bath and stepped carefully into the tub, his muscles and joints screaming in protest. He shuddered as the warm water enveloped him, a jarring contrast to the chill of Thanos' realm that had settled deep into his bones over the past year.

He caught Star Lord watching him out of the corner of his eye and glared as menacingly as he could at the Terran, submerged in warm, perfumed water with hundreds of bubbles floating around him.

Star Lord covered his mouth and looked away, unable to stop a small smile from growing on his face.

"What do you find so humorous now?" Ronan snapped in annoyance, not certain that the other man could hear him. Now that he listened more closely, he could hear small snatches of noise coming from the ear coverings on Quill's head. Was the sound from another one of his tasteless Terran ballads?

"Nothing at all," Quill replied coyly, winking at his charge. "It's just that you look like you've never taken a bubble bath before."

"Of course I have," Ronan growled irritably, starting to scrub some of the stench, blood and grime off of the skin that was not covered in waterproof bandages. The bubbles foamed around him, and the warmth was beginning to make him pleasantly lightheaded in a way the painkillers were not. "But not for many decades, Star Lord, and rarely even then. My people have…a different aesthetic for comfort."

"No kidding," Quill laughed drily, removing the coverings from his ears and letting them rest around his neck. He pressed a button on the auditory device, placing it securely back in his pocket. "You probably slept on a bed of nails and walked over hot coals to get to your job every morning, right? I'd feel like crushing some skulls in too if I had to endure that day after day."

"Do not _mock_ me, Terran," Ronan growled, lurching forward as the dirty water lapped at the edges of the tub.

Star Lord raised an eyebrow from where he was seated a few feet away, looking profoundly unimpressed. "Or what, tough guy?"

Ronan locked gazes with him for a long moment, feeling as if they were frozen in time. Then without warning, as if his body was compelling him to move without forethought, he scooped up a handful of soapy water and whipped it directly at Star Lord's smirking face.

It connected. The Terran blinked at him for a long moment, utterly dumbfounded as water rolled down his cheeks, before he grinned in genuine glee.

"Oh, it's _on_, bro," he laughed as he pressed a button on the wall, activating the shower that was attached to the tub. Ronan shrieked in surprise and fury as cold water cascaded over him, all but ruining his bath. He scooped up more water in retaliation, hurling it at Star Lord as violently as he could.

From there, the battle got steadily more surreal. Ronan had never fought an enemy with splashes of water before, but he had to admit that with the sound of Star Lord's laughter echoing in his ears was a welcome change from the harsh cries of battle.

* * *

><p>"You ready for me to send her in?" he asked quietly as Ronan sat fidgeting on the edge of his bed, wearing the oversized T-shirt and drawstring pants Peter had given him not long after their…little scuffle with the water earlier. Peter wasn't a small guy, but he wasn't a giant in terms of height or weight either, so it was a bit strange to see Ronan practically swimming in his clothes.<p>

To make the Accuser more comfortable (or perhaps to make himself feel less hungry by looking at him) Peter had also made him drink small sips of a protein shake intended for sick people. Ronan had kept it down, and he'd even tried to drink the entire cup before Peter had torn it out of his hands, telling him to go more slowly. Those shakes were disgusting, but Peter suspected it was gourmet fare to Ronan after what he'd eaten in Thanos' realm. The Kree already looked slightly more stable, as if he was gaining some of his color back. Or maybe that was only Peter's imagination.

"Do what you must," the Accuser replied quietly, looking up at him again with those wide, eerie eyes. "In the end, what difference will it make?"

Peter had shackled his wrists in preparation for his talk with Gamora, feeling a hint of remorse about what he'd had to do. At the same time, he was certain that this was the best move, at least until Ronan could be fully trusted.

While he knew that Gamora was capable of taking care of herself, the Kree was unstable and unpredictable, not to mention obsessed with revenge. And he was still freakishly strong – the only reason why Peter was able to cuff him in the first place was because he was too worn out after their water fight to deliver justice, or whatever euphemism he liked to use for violence.

"She won't hurt you," Peter assured him, kneeling so that he could be eye level with Ronan. From the annoyance that flitted across the Kree's face, he didn't appreciate the condescension. "But I wouldn't recommend keeping anything from her, either. There's a lot at stake, here – including the fate of _your _people, if Thanos gets his hands on that stone."

"And you assume that _you_ will be able to stop him?" Ronan asked incredulously, giving him a scathing look. "You give yourself and your band of misfits too much credit, Terran."

"We stopped you," Peter reminded him.

"This is different," Ronan whispered, his gaze distant. Peter's eyes moved to the collar that rested around the Kree's neck. It appeared to be made from some kind of metal, but it had a strange sheen as if it absorbed more light than it reflected. There were symbols engraved along its edges, the language likely too archaic to be translated by a computer.

"This is what he wants," Ronan continued, his hollow eyes fixed on some point far beyond them both. "This futile _struggle. _It was never about the Stone – that is only the means to his ends. To _our end," _Ronan laughed, something primal in the sound that raised the hairs on the back of Peter's neck.

"It was only ever about the chase, the blood spilling into the blackness of the star ways when his quarry is found. His relief as he sees the light leaving others' eyes, joined forever in the embrace of – "

Peter took Ronan's trembling hands in his own, hoping that the touch would force the Kree back into reality, because this was beyond creepy. Ronan's eyes flickered back to his own, startled, as if he had just been forced out of some morbid trance.

"Ronan?" Peter asked cautiously, holding the Kree's shaking fingers still. "Are you still with me, buddy?"

The Kree's shoulders slumped at the question and he nodded in a resigned sort of acceptance. Only - Peter wasn't certain if it was _his_ question that Ronan was answering.

"But not for me," the Kree whispered forlornly, looking away. "That gift will never be offered to me."

"I'll send her in," Peter muttered, for lack of anything else to say. Ronan nodded as Peter gave his fingers one last squeeze, his gaze closed off and distant again, but in a different way. Peter stood, opening the door and telling Gamora softly that Ronan was ready to speak to her (she had been waiting there the entire time).

"We'll be fine, Quill," she told him, reading the expression on his face. "Get some rest – you deserve it, after today. If you have to do something, maybe join Rocket at the helm and make sure he doesn't land anywhere that's _too _shady."

"Shade is good," Peter murmured to himself, walking aimlessly down the hall as unease twisted his stomach. "It makes us harder to find."

But he wasn't so sure about that now.

* * *

><p>"You're hiding something," Gamora told him, her eyes narrowed as she replayed his story in her head. His account of his escape was riddled with omissions and outright lies, such as his explanation of how he had secured a ship to travel to Xandar, and why he had been wearing…a very particular set of clothing belonging to the one person who connected them the most. Ronan could feel Gamora's eyes running over the blackened scar on his cheek, the mark that no dermal regenerator would ever quite remove.<p>

She knew damn well that he hadn't escaped on his own.

"I already told you," Ronan sighed in irritation, hoping that the sound would mask the pounding of his heart, "that once Thanos left to obtain the Infinity Stone, I knew I had to act. I had no desire to witness the downfall of my _own_ people at his hands. I slipped away as the Chitauri finished mobilizing and took a ship that was parked farther from their compound – I had seen it there before, and I knew it was the only ship I could pilot without Chitauri DNA. I found these clothes inside, and opted to wear them in absence of anything else."

"Uh-huh," Gamora replied credulously, raising an eyebrow. "I guess that makes sense, finding a random ship from the outside world that someone just decided to leave behind. Because Thanos' realm is so hospitable – everyone is _dying_ to spend a long weekend there."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you," Ronan countered, wondering when Gamora's patience would run out. He had not trained her to be cautious when interrogating prisoners; if screaming torture was the only way to yield an answer, then screaming torture was the course he'd always recommended.

Of course, torture didn't always work, and it wouldn't work on him. Ronan had spent the past year at Thanos' mercy, and different variations of agony were the only way he had marked the passage of time. Gamora was nowhere near as sadistic as her father could be, so Ronan knew that he had nothing new or worse to fear from her.

On the other hand, he had no desire to incur Nebula's wrath by breaking his promise. Star Lord seemed to pity him or desire him, one of the two, and although both of those possibilities repulsed him, Ronan was able to admit now that the Terran's sentiment gave him an unexpected advantage.

He was still a prisoner and a threat in the Guardians' eyes, but if he could leverage the trust of the group's unofficial leader – perhaps his position on board their ship could change. Then when the time was right, Ronan would dispose of the irrelevant four and capture Gamora. He would deliver her to Nebula as promised, before he set a course for Hala and the only people he was concerned with protecting.

These assorted outcasts and misfits possessed an unexpected strength when they fought together, but Thanos would crush them all like ants in the end. The chase, this _illusion_ of temporary safety was simply part of the Mad Titan's game. Ronan knew that he couldn't rely on them to save his people – the Kree Empire would have to defend itself.

And what a fight it would be – a struggle that extinguished entire solar systems.

"Lying doesn't suit _you,"_ Gamora shot back, leaning forward in her chair. "It's against the laws you swore to obey as an Accuser, by the way. That scar on your cheek, the one that Quill couldn't heal – that could only have been made by the blade of one person in the universe. So why don't we try this again."

Gamora was technically incorrect; Ronan _was _allowed to lie, as long as his deception furthered the interests of the Kree Empire. She thought that she had him cornered, but Ronan was getting better and better at slipping out of tight situations like an eel.

"You're right," he admitted, looking down as if he was unable to meet her laser-pointed gaze. "I _am _lying. I didn't come across these items on my own. They belonged to…your sister."

"That's better. _Look at me," _Gamora demanded, a raw edge in her voice. "Is Nebula working for Thanos again?"

"She _was,"_ Ronan replied, counting his heartbeats as he met her eyes. "But she's gone now."

"_Gone?"_ Gamora asked, a flicker of panic crossing her face. "'Gone' where? What does _gone_ mean?"

Ronan took a deep breath, preparing to put on his best performance yet (not that that was saying much). If he survived his lie, perhaps Gamora's suspicions would be diverted, at least until he could carry out his plan.

"She's gone because I killed her. After Thanos left, she tried to stop me from escaping. I had to snap her neck."

Absolute silence. Ronan tried not to fidget anxiously as Gamora's eyes bored into him, looking for any sign of deception or weakness. The assassin's face was perfectly blank, but Ronan had witnessed that same dissonant serenity dozens of times before she moved in for the kill.

"You're lying," she repeated, as calmly as possible. But Ronan didn't miss the clench of her jaw or the coiled tension in her shoulders.

"I am not," he reassured her. "I did not enjoy it. But she fought bravely, and managed to give me this scar before she died. She is finally at peace now."

"Bullshit, Ronan," Gamora snapped, a hint of desperation in her voice. "You've loved her since the day you first saw her – don't even try to deny it."

"I don't deny it," he said quietly. "But why does this news bother you? She was your enemy, at the end – she had already tried to kill you several times."

"You don't get to ask questions," Gamora snapped, scowling and standing abruptly. "And just so you're aware, I don't believe a word of anything you just said, aside from the confession of your feelings for my sister. I won't torture you, because I know that pain makes very little difference to you now. But I _will_ be watching you, and I _will _discover exactly why you're here."

_Damn it all, _he lamented silently, _this will make things so much more needlessly difficult._

She turned to leave, about to open the door before she spun around to face him.

"It surprised me," she admitted, her eyes searching his own, "when I realized that you had warned the Xandarians. But I suppose we all have a greater enemy now – a common enemy."

"You are all still my enemies, as far as I am concerned."

"Yes," she conceded, "but things don't necessarily have to remain that way. The choice is yours, Ronan – you have a link to Thanos that none of us would ever hope for." She nodded at his collar, which seemed to prickle against his skin again at the reminder.

"You can feel his emotions, and even read his thoughts from time to time – am I correct? That could be very useful to us."

Ronan scowled and looked away, an un-nameable feeling building in his chest. There was no question that he had lost this round. But he was a strategist, one of the best warriors the Kree Empire had ever seen. He could still turn this defeat into a victory.

"I will consider it," he told Gamora. "What do I have to lose, besides everything else that matters to me?"

She nodded, understanding in her eyes. They were the same, in that regard.

* * *

><p>The darkness surrounded him as he sat in his living quarters, turning his favorite blade over and over in his hands methodically. It was a habit he'd developed over the past few years, since the day his life had changed forever. On the outside, he appeared to be calm and centered. In fact, his friends likely thought that he was asleep – conveniently cloistered away where he wouldn't cause any disruption.<p>

But on the inside, things were entirely different. Drax's thoughts were like a hurricane.

After facing his family's murderer several hours ago and finally speaking his piece, the warrior had found it impossible to sleep. Images had raced through his mind, visions of his family's twisted, broken necks and empty eyes. Drax hadn't been there to witness their deaths, but when he returned from a neighboring planet after a battle, unaware, the lone survivor from his tribe told him what had transpired. Ronan, one of the Kree dignitaries had arrived with a borrowed army at his back, razing the entire planet to the ground before closing in on his village.

The Accuser had declared his kinsmen guilty, using his hammer to execute nearly every member of his family – except for two. By the time Hovat and Kamaria were brought to him, their cries echoing over the vast, bloody wasteland, Ronan's eyes were glinting with madness and his hammer was soaked in blood all the way down to the handle. He'd thrown the weapon aside in favor of using his bare hands. And his laughter…his kinsman said that he would never forget the sound.

To distract himself from his worst memories, the Destroyer had imagined the suffering Ronan must have endured at Thanos' hands. Drax wasn't a well-traveled man, but he wasn't naïve – he knew what the collar symbolized. On his planet, taking slaves wasn't an unheard of practice after a battle was won. Though Drax despised the institution, he had witnessed plenty of it during his lifetime.

Ronan had suffered as Thanos' slave, there was no questioning that. Drax recognized the haunted look in his eyes – it was the same look he used to see in the faces of the captives carried off from battles. Especially the slaves that served a very particular purpose.

Knowing that Ronan was broken in body and spirit _should_ have been enough to allow Drax to sleep soundly. His family was avenged, and justice was served. And yet…

The others had shown the Kree _kindness._ Peter Quill had unbound the murderer of his family as if it was nothing, and he and Groot had even gone as far as to embrace him as he sobbed in well-deserved misery. He had treated his wounds, and had even allowed him to bathe. Right now, the Accuser was reportedly asleep in Peter Quill's quarters, when they had all collectively agreed to lock him in a dank closet. Where was the justice in that?

_Ronan thinks that he is the only one who upholds justice, _Drax mused, spinning his blade yet more quickly and watching as the metal glinted in the darkness. _He is mistaken._

The warrior stood, making his decision.

_What is the point of protecting the galaxy if one cannot even see justice done for his family?_

He opened the door, treading silently down the hallway towards Star Lord's quarters, blade in hand.


	8. Chapter 8

Ronan woke up slowly, the warmth and comfort of deep, restful sleep lingering at the edges of his senses. He yawned, disoriented as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of his surroundings. As he attempted to move an arm to push his half-sleep body into a sitting position, he discovered that his wrists were cuffed, bound too tightly with metal and magnetism to separate by more than a few inches.

Ronan sighed softly as his memory returned to him and lay back in the warm covers, too comfortable to fight. He knew that any form of relaxation was an indulgence, a luxury he could not afford. He should have been plotting his takeover of the ship, and how he would gain these creatures' trust until that time arrived. He should have been fretting about the metal around his neck, and what Thanos would do to him once the Titan finally tracked him down. He should have been strategizing for his long overdue return to Kree space.

But instead, he couldn't help but recline in his enemy's bed, feeling content as precious time ticked by. What was especially ironic was that this was the _last_ place he should feel safe. And yet…this was the first time in what seemed like an eternity that he'd been able to sleep for more than a few fitful minutes at once.

Even before his campaign to destroy Xandar, sleep was not a luxury that he indulged in often. There was simply too much to be done, and not enough time in each day to rest. Even on the rare occasions that he finally collapsed in exhaustion, the screams and caved-in faces that marked his day followed him into his nightmares.

In Thanos' realm, the prospect of sleep had been a fever dream. Even when his master's attention was turned elsewhere, Ronan's agonized body was too flayed, twisted and bruised to allow him the rest he desperately needed. He'd drifted for hours at a time, off in his own world, and had closed his eyes only to wake up in a panic seconds later as he felt Thanos' mind brush against his own.

But tonight, things were different – the blood, fear and chaos of the past year had been chased away, if only temporarily, and his world was still.

Ronan glanced over at the Terran slumbering in a tangle of blankets on the floor, more out of curiosity than anything else. He still couldn't conceive of _why_ Star Lord had given him his bed. When the other man had offered it to him without a second thought, taking the floor without complaint, Ronan had nearly unraveled with anxiety.

As Star Lord killed the lights and settled down on the floor beside the bed to sleep, murmuring goodnight, Ronan had remained completely still and tense. He didn't think he'd breathed for at least ten minutes, and the only sound that filled his ears was the furious pounding of his heart.

When he gathered up the courage to shift and glance over at his enemy, he'd found to his amazement that the Terran looked and sounded as if he was actually asleep. He vaguely remembered feeling confusion before he experienced an unexpected, painful tug at his heart. He didn't recall much after that, except for the warmth. His body had finally submitted to sleep once he realized that for the first time in over a year, he was somewhere safe. It was hard to estimate how long he'd actually been unconscious, but Ronan guessed that it was probably for over an hour.

He watched as Star Lord yawned and kicked his legs, nearly waking up before he rolled over and hugged a pillow, fast asleep again. Despite himself, the Kree couldn't stop a small smile from spreading on his lips. Even in his sleep, Star Lord couldn't help but follow his bizarre (yet strangely comforting) Terran custom of wrapping his arms around things and people. Perhaps the embrace from earlier wasn't a calculated act, but just something that his people did automatically.

Ronan hated to admit it – and by _hated – _he knew that his ancestry, birth, education and lifelong training were opposed to every traitorous thought currently running through his head. On Kree-Lar, if he shared his thoughts about Peter Quill with anyone in a position of power, he would be put through intensive re-education training immediately by the decree of the Supreme Intelligence.

_I don't want to execute him, _Ronan realized as he looked down at the vulnerable Terran, who was breathing peacefully, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep. _I don't want to harm him at all any longer, even if he is a criminal._

It was unthinkable. From the moment he had been judged old enough to understand, Ronan had been taught that men such as Star Lord deserved no mercy or compassion. Peter Quill had not only stood in the way of Kree justice, but the actions of him and his friends had all but handed Thanos the Infinity Stone on a silver platter. If Ronan had been able to use its borrowed power to kill Thanos after destroying Xandar, the rest of the universe would have been much better off today.

There still had to be punishment - that was beyond dispute. But maybe instead of executing the Terran outright, Ronan could work out some form of compromise. Star Lord was clearly insane, and mentally ill criminals weren't always held responsible for their actions, even under Kree law.

_Perhaps I can bring him back to Hala, if we somehow survive this, _Ronan mused, pondering how he could satisfy his sense of justice and his curiosity about the Terran at the same time.

_Our scientists could study him to learn more about his people's strange ways, so his species will never be able to deceive anyone else. And more importantly, I would have endless time to learn from him how he was able to wield the Infinity Stone._

Satisfied with his compromise, Ronan closed his eyes, feeling as if he could sleep for another whole hour before his body forced him awake again. But just as his breathing started to slow and his limbs became heavy and numb, he heard a soft but unmistakable creak from the narrow hallway that led to Star Lord's sleeping quarters.

_Footsteps – _there was no misreading that sound.

Ronan forced himself upright, his heart setting a staccato rhythm within the confines of his chest. Whoever happened to be approaching (and he was almost certain of who it was) didn't have many other possible places to stop in the hallway. There was the bathroom, of course, and a locked closet, probably one of the places where the Guardians stored their spare weapons, ammunition, and other contraband.

Ronan was confident in his guess that Drax wasn't stopping by for a bathroom break.

The footfalls paused several feet away from the door, yet not close enough to force an entry. Ronan held his breath, listening carefully as confusion and fear dueled for control in his mind. He swore softly under his breath as he heard a soft beeping from a computerized lock, and a nearby door swinging open – the door to the room where the Guardians probably kept all of their more illegal possessions.

_"Quill,"_ Ronan hissed, not eager to wake the other man but not knowing what else he could do, cuffed and weaponless as he was. "Wake up, you fool –"

The closet door swung back shut, its locks clicking softly into place. Ronan heard the same light footsteps closing the rest of the distance to Quill's door as clearly as he'd heard the death knoll for fallen soldiers on Hala.

"_Star Lord," _he called, more loudly this time, "get up and move _immediately – "_

The Terran stirred, mumbling something in his sleep that sounded like _"Smurfs wouldn't know how to dance"_ before taking one of his pillows and pulling it over his head, blocking out Ronan's frantic warnings.

There was no forced entry – instead, the door clicked open with more finesse than Ronan would have expected from someone whom fools across the galaxy called "The Destroyer." The hallway beyond Star Lord's quarters was dark, but Ronan had always been able to see clearly in the darkness.

So could Drax, based on how quickly and accurately he aimed a stun gun at the Terran on the floor. Quill rolled over just as Drax aimed, throwing the covers off on instinct as he reached for his own weapon. He was fully awake and aware for a split second before his mouth formed a soft "o" of surprise, the glare of the stun shot throwing the room into blinding relief.

Then he fell back against the covers, boneless, unaware and unconcerned with what was happening around him.

Drax paused and stooped down, checking the Terran's pulse to make sure that his heart was still beating. Ronan watched wide-eyed as the Destroyer stood again, fixing him with a stare that was as cold and merciless as the void of space.

"Stand up and face me like a man," the warrior spat viciously. "Do not even consider screaming."

"I would never give you the satisfaction," Ronan hissed back, glaring at Drax as he forced his still-weak legs to stand. It was harder to balance with his wrists shackled in front of him, and he almost lost his footing amidst the sea of tangled blankets. Drax stepped over the unconscious Star Lord to reach him, grasping the Accuser's upper arm with fingers of steel. He pulled the Kree from the cramped, dirty bedroom, moving as swiftly and silently as possible for the exit of the ship.

Apparently the others had landed to refuel as he and Quill slept, probably in some lawless hellhole where criminals of their kind liked to congregate. Ronan knew that their location put him at yet another disadvantage. Besides being shackled and outgunned, he would be surrounded by mobsters and mercenaries who wouldn't blink an eye upon seeing Drax kill him and dispose of his corpse.

Ronan stumbled and fell on purpose, kicking out at Drax's legs as soon as he was down. He hoped to make enough noise and stall Drax long enough to wake the more moderate members of the team, such as Gamora. He would never scream – even if Drax planned on taking his life, Ronan wouldn't allow him or the other Guardians to see his fear.

Drax sidestepped his attack at the last second, growling as he understood what Ronan was trying to do by attacking him while bound and unarmed. He pressed the barrel of the stun gun against the Accuser's temple, the threat in the action implied.

_Die on your feet or die as you're completely helpless, mute, and unaware of your own fate._

Ronan nodded, trying to convey his understanding through his eyes. Drax wrenched him to his feet again, pressing a button next to the pilot's chair. The hatch of the ship opened slowly and soundlessly, revealing the location where they were currently docked.

Large vats of spinal fluid marking the terrain of the planet like hundreds of weeping wounds. Outlaws, gamblers and dirt-poor miners scrambling back and forth like a hive of leaderless insects, ignorant of any sense of decorum or basic order. A massive dome of bone covering the sky, blocking out the light from the stars above.

Genuine amusement bubbled up in Ronan's chest, and he forced himself to hold his gales of laughter inside until the hatch of the ship closed behind them. There were tears running down his cheeks, because this was just too _perfect, _too absurdly cruel, and it was fitting that his long cycle of humiliation and failure would end (and begin again) in a place like Knowhere.

There was no true end to his suffering now that Thanos was involved, Ronan knew that – the end was the beginning, and the beginning of his punishment would never end. Somewhere through the fog of his mad amusement, he could tell that Drax was glaring at him in frustration and confusion. He didn't quite realize it, or maybe he didn't care anymore.

Ronan returned to his senses as the warrior clipped him with a vicious right hook, turning his head halfway around and sending him crashing to his knees. He tasted blood from his split lip, though the punch wasn't hard enough to seriously injure him.

"Be silent, you animal," Drax commanded, looking at him as if he was a rabid dog foaming at the mouth. "Face your fate with whatever small amount of dignity you have left."

"How ironic that you would grant me such a courtesy," Ronan sneered as Drax pulled him through the bustling crowd and towards the nearest lift. There was a long, gleaming knife at the warrior's belt, in addition to the energy weapon in his hand. But judging from the intensity of his glare, Ronan suspected that the weapons were not the main reasons why people were giving them a wide berth.

"You know what will happen to me if you go through with this," Ronan continued, trying in vain to prevent his despair from slipping into his voice as Drax shoved him onto a lift that would take them to the highest point of Knowhere. The doors hissed shut, the sound chilling and final to the Accuser's ears.

"You know who will find me," he sneered, his voice shaking as Drax looked stonily out over the twisted layers of metal, bone, and brain tissue of a long-dead monster. The warrior's grip was like iron on the back of his neck, and the collar prickled at his skin, as if it sensed that Ronan would be reunited with his master soon.

"So why this illusion of honor?" Ronan needled, his tone more desperate now than mocking. "You are not avenging your family by returning me to Thanos in pieces. Like the coward you are, you're just letting him take your revenge for you."

Ronan expected Drax to start screaming obscenities at him, or to throw more pitiful, ineffective punches. He wouldn't be surprised if the savage took out his knife and attempted to disembowel him. Any mention of his dead family was Drax's main weak point, after all.

Instead, the warrior merely looked at him coldly, nodding in acknowledgement. "You are correct about everything you've said," he replied icily as Ronan's stomach dropped in surprise and horror.

The lift _dinged _as it reached the highest level, and Ronan shook as the doors to the wire and metal cage slid open. Drax's face looked as if it was carved from stone, and his red eyes were determined and merciless.

"I've accepted the reality that there is no pain I can inflict on you that you have not already suffered," the other man continued coldly, pulling Ronan from the lift as the Kree desperately dug in his bare heels, struggling pointlessly. "You have already died once before, at our hands. And then Thanos found you in the Void. He beat you, starved you, and flayed you. He made you his slave, and used you in the worst possible way."

Drax studied his face shrewdly, running a thumb over the collar and nodding in acknowledgement as he saw shame flit across Ronan's features. They were far up now, at the very highest point of the behemoth's hollowed-out skull. There was no more metal scaffolding up here, only a smooth floor of bone beneath their feet and millions of stars before their eyes.

The atmosphere was much thinner up here, with the outer edge of the skull at the very limits of Knowhere's oxygen and gravity-support systems. It was more difficult to breathe at this absolute border of space, and profoundly, bone-chillingly cold.

(Thanos' realm had been cold, open and exposed to the stars too. But his hands had always been searing hot, his touch burning Ronan down to the core until his pride, hopes and dreams were nothing but bitter ashes slipping through his fingers).

"I could never punish you in such a way," Drax confessed, facing him again, his features unreadable. "I am a killer, but not a torturer. Before, I was content to leave you alone in your misery when you first returned to us like a beaten dog. You were not supposed to be alive again, and yet you _had _been punished. I assumed you would be executed once Thanos was dead, and then gone from our lives forever."

"Then what _changed?"_ Ronan shouted, gasping for air as Drax tugged him, struggling and spitting, to the very edge of the expanse of bone and forced him to his knees. He looked down in terror, the black, gaping maw of the Void filling his vision and freezing the tears on his cheeks solid as they fell.

"You will not give me the _chance _to prove myself before I die, even when we share a common enemy? I killed your family, but Thanos was the one who gave the order," Ronan whispered, his voice a low, desperate plea. They were both so close to the edge now that one small shove would send them both hurtling into the abyss.

In his despair, Ronan wondered whether he should try – if he should make one last final, desperate attack, killing them both before Drax had the opportunity to enact his revenge. Perhaps Thanos would revive Drax, as well, and let the warrior experience exactly what he had suffered.

The prospect was tempting, Ronan had to admit.

"What _changed,"_ Drax screamed in reply, his voice full of raw emotion for the first time that evening, "what changed was not even your doing. You acted exactly as you had before, attempting to kill an innocent who had done no wrong. You have learned absolutely nothing after your defeat – I expected that much."

Drax wrenched Ronan's head back and pressed his blade flush against the Accuser's throat. Ronan could feel his pulse thrum against the cold metal, each beat a countdown to the beginning of the next cycle of agony.

"But then, instead of treating you like the monster you are, he showed you _kindness._ He comforted you, embraced you, when you would have taken his life. He…forgave you."

Drax's hands were shaking, and Ronan knew it wasn't due only to the chill of space. He felt a single drop fall on his bare head, freezing long before it could fall into the Void beneath them.

"Hovat and Kamaria are dead, murdered at your hands. Killing you will not give them life again," Drax intoned, his voice hollow. "But I will not allow you to harm Peter Quill, Gamora, Rocket and Groot. They are the only family I have left, and I will not lose family to you again. Even if they mistakenly believe you have changed."

"I would not harm them," Ronan promised, trying once more to reach the vengeful man above him, as merciless as any Kree executioner. But Drax has guessed his intentions perfectly, and they both knew it. "I swear to you, Drax the Destroyer. Let me help you destroy Thanos, and then my life is yours. You may do whatever you want with it."

Drax froze for a moment, as if he was seriously considering Ronan's offer. Ronan sensed the warrior's uncertainty and pushed forward with one last argument.

"You need me if you want to have any chance at defeating him. I have shared his thoughts, and I know the workings of his mind," Ronan whispered, his teeth chattering. His lips were almost too numb to form words. "…Please, Drax. Don't doom the rest of the galaxy…for your own revenge."

The world seemed to go completely still and silent for a long moment, and the only sound that filled Ronan's ears was the furious pounding of his own heart.

Finally Drax spoke, and before the words even left his lips, Ronan knew that he had miscalculated.

"But that is precisely what _you _did," Drax whispered viciously, "and you haven't changed – I can see it in your eyes. You will harm my family again, as soon as the opportunity arises, and claim that your murders were justice. But now I will have _my_ justice, so I won't have to take vengeance – ever again. Thanos will not allow you to escape twice."

Ronan shivered as the cold of the Void seemed to bury deep under his skin, enveloping his slowing heart and freezing the blood in his veins. _Drax must feel it too, _he realized. _If he doesn't end it now, he'll die here with me._

But wasn't that the outcome Ronan wanted, if he was to die himself? Distantly, he recalled Drax's wife and daughter, the memory far less vivid than when he wielded the Infinity Stone. By the time he executed them, he was so drowned in blood that he didn't remember his own name, his righteous war, or whyhe had descended on this planet of primitives, who were of no harm or consequence to anyone but themselves.

Hovat and Kamaria were the last two people to stand accused that day. Ronan hardly remembered killing them, and after he had carried out that final sentence, he'd reportedly turned on his own men and started tearing them apart, overcome with madness and bloodlust. Along with some of his troops, Gamora and Nebula had managed to stop him, but just barely. The adoptive sisters hadn't met his eyes for weeks as they healed, and Gamora's report of the incident had been laced with a deep, quiet hatred.

He found a way to justify the deaths back then – he always did, but he never dared to sleep. Could he do the same again?

Had he changed?

Ronan needed to know, more than he needed the dwindling breath in his lungs – but it was too late to find out now.

"You're right," he admitted quietly, mournfully, as Drax's blade shook against his neck. "What I did to your family…was not justice. I knew it all along. Take my life…if that will help them rest easier."

Ronan braced himself to die, numbness consuming him from the inside out. But instead of feeling Drax's blade opening his throat and the emptiness of the Void rushing up to meet him, he vaguely registered being pulled _away_ from the edge.

The next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes in the much warmer, brighter confines of the lift. The elevator was descending back down to the mines of Knowhere, lurching unsteadily from level to level and banging Ronan's head on every floor. The Kree's limbs were screaming in pain as they warmed, the numbness chased away by the mines' climate control system.

Drax was slumped against the wall beside him, his normally pale skin nearly as blue as Ronan's. His eyes were still bloodshot from the freezing cold of space, and the frozen layer of tears on his cheeks was only starting to melt. They had managed to stay alive at the boundary of Knowhere longer than they would have in open space. Ronan would recover within hours, his superior body quickly adapting to any damage done from the cold.

But Drax…Drax would probably need a doctor and actual treatment, if he wanted to survive the night. And that probably meant alerting the other Guardians to what had happened.

"What shall we tell them?" Ronan asked, breaking the heavy silence. "That as two close friends, we decided to take a late night stroll to the edge of Knowhere?"

Drax scowled in distaste. "We are _not _friends, Kree. After my actions, how you could even mistake – "

But as he read the bewildered look on Ronan's face, something must have clicked.

"Ah…you are 'being sarcastic,' as Peter Quill would say," Drax muttered, shivering violently. "I have… learned much about semantics from him."

It didn't look good for Drax – Ronan's shivers had already stopped, but Drax's seemed to be getting worse. The Accuser wasn't certain why he cared – after all, Drax was a savage and a criminal, and he had just attempted to murder him in cold blood, returning him to Thanos to be tortured.

Only…perhaps Ronan himself wasn't so different from Drax, by his own admission only a few minutes ago. If killing Drax's family hadn't been justice, then it could only be classified as murder. And because of his crimes that day, more than a few people across the galaxy probably regarded him as a savage.

"It is probably easiest…to tell the truth," Drax answered after a pause, his teeth chattering. "That I decided to kill you…and then I changed my mind."

_"Why?" _Ronan implored, still hardly believing his reversal in fortune. "You had the chance to avenge both of your families – why didn't you take it?"

Drax met his eyes, smiling sadly. Ronan felt a wave of shame and guilt wallop him like a punch in the stomach, brutal and entirely unexpected. What was causing him to feel this way now, after spending so long drenched in blood?

"You admitted…that what you did…was not justice," the Destroyer sighed, looking away. "You _have_ changed…if you were able to say that."

The rest of their trip back to the _Milano _was spent in total silence.

* * *

><p><em>There was no battle on the first planet on Thanos' list, a small world his generals told him was called Kamaria, or 'gift' in the natives' language. It was more like a one-sided slaughter.<em>

_The people of Kamaria lacked a central government, and lived scattered in tribes on the few inhabitable sections of the desert planet's surface. They went to war like most other self-aware species in the galaxy, but only against themselves, or against nearby planets with other primitive races. They had a very basic form of space travel, but even that was borrowed technology. Most of the savages still fought with sticks, blades and shields._

_Ronan's fleet had set the planet ablaze, reducing entire settlements to ashes from the air. As the Accuser looked down and watched the planet burn from the safety of his command chamber, he felt nothing at all. He wasn't satisfied at seeing the destruction, though this was a world technically under the Nova Empire's protection. He wasn't relieved, even though he knew that granting Thanos this favor would win his backing for destroying Xandar, a far more difficult target._

_Instead, the victory felt cheap and hollow. Was this justice, or merely senseless destruction? It didn't feel like justice to Ronan – justice was the ancient rituals of his ancestors, the helpless screams of the Accused and the spray of blood as they were finally set free. Justice wasn't pretty or pleasant, but Ronan knew that it was necessary. Killing his enemies without ever seeing them face to face was cowardice, and a disgrace to his position as Supreme Accuser._

_He made up his mind, ordering the Dark Aster to land in the last settlement that was still standing, with Gamora's and Nebula's wary eyes on his back. He strode out of his ship with a squad of his fiercest warriors, looking disdainfully at the small village in front of him. There were dirt roads and thatched huts, and not the slightest sign of innovation or technology in sight._

_At least the inhabitants weren't as boring. They fought bravely, rushing at Ronan and his army with the desperation of people who knew they had no chance of survival. Ronan fought back with glee, crushing chests and skulls with his Universal Weapon and breaking bodies apart with lethal blasts._

_As the smoke of the battlefield cleared, Ronan and his men marched through the town, searching for any survivors. "Cleanse it of all life" – that was what Thanos had said. Ronan wasn't sure why, but he had a feeling that the Mad Titan would know if he left even a single heart beating._

_The weakest members of the village were torn from their hiding places and brought to the clearing to face justice – the old men, the cripples, the women and children. Ronan's stomach turned as he saw them, and suddenly he wished he was back in the air again, ordering the burning of the village from afar._

_This didn't feel right – who were these people, and why did they deserve to die? But even as he looked into their eyes, terrified, pleading and defiant, he couldn't escape the fact that this was his duty. This was a Nova planet, even if Kamaria itself had no choice in the matter. Besides, these people had been marked for death by Thanos and would be killed regardless of what he did here today. If he wanted Thanos to destroy Xandar, there was no turning back now._

_Ronan spoke the words and carried out the sentences as the Accused were brought before him one by one, pleading, cursing and screaming. Blood splattered in his eyes and ran down the handle of his hammer, making the weapon harder to grip with each subsequent swing. Ronan's hands were shaking violently, and his memories of the day not so long ago, when __**he**__ was as helpless as the people in front of him tore at his sanity._

_He watched numbly as the last of the condemned broke away from the guards after a scuffle, a tattooed woman carrying a young girl in her arms. One of his soldiers fired, hitting her square in the back and crippling her instantly as the girl tumbled out of her arms._

_From a distance, he could hear Gamora retching behind him. Or was it Nebula? He'd always advised his lieutenants not to eat before executions, and it wasn't his fault that they were too foolish and prideful to listen to sound advice. Weak fools, both of them – Thanos' daughters couldn't be relied upon. Only he was strong enough to do what was right - to cleanse the galaxy of immorality and evil._

_His warriors dragged the last two survivors before him as bile rose in his throat and his vision blurred with moisture._

_The woman was strong and still conscious, even with half of her back blown away, and she spotted his sinful weakness immediately._

_"Don't do this," she whispered. "My child, my Kamaria, please let her live. You aren't a cruel man, not by choice, I can see it in your –"_

_Ronan tried to swing his hammer to stop her blasphemous words, only to watch it slip from his bloody hands before he raised it past his shoulder, falling to the dirt by his feet. The girl was crying, her sobs splitting the silence and unleashing an avalanche of chaos inside of his head. He couldn't think - he couldn't concentrate. What was he supposed to do now, if he couldn't lift his hammer?_

_He vaguely remembered that he had lieutenants and turned to Gamora, expecting her to hand him a weapon. The assassin simply looked at him blankly, her eyes glazed with horror. Nebula was no help either, as she was looking away from him entirely, nearly as green as her sister._

_The woman was still sobbing, pleading for her daughter's life, and suddenly Ronan couldn't endure it any longer – he needed to silence those pitiful noises, no matter the method. He reached down and picked the dying woman up one-handed, his arm seeming to move independently of his conscious will. Ronan watched mesmerized as his bloody fingers closed around her throat, transforming desperate pleas into futile gasps for air._

_Tears that weren't just his own ran down his hands, washing clean trails through layers of blood. Ronan didn't notice, because he was busy laughing at the simplicity of it all. Was this all that it took, to end a life? Surely he'd killed countless people without a weapon before. So why did killing feel brand new again, as if he were judging the condemned for the first time?_

_Ronan smiled in relief as he heard a telltale snap and the woman's neck finally went limp in his hands. He tossed the corpse off to the side carelessly, frowning as he realized that something was missing. As he looked down at the last of the condemned who was still standing, he realized what it was._

_The child was looking up at him wide-eyed, tears still fresh on her cheeks. She had stopped crying when she saw her mother fall, and the silence that filled the village was as piercing as a thousand dying screams. As Ronan considered his final kill, he caught a glimpse of something else in the dirt – a doll, lovingly hand-stitched and worn from many months of play._

_He laughed hysterically as he approached the girl, not daring to stop because the sound drowned out the screams echoing in his ears and the horrors lurking behind his eyes._

_After the final sentence was carried out, Ronan didn't stop moving – he __**couldn't**__ stop moving. He leapt at his men, tearing through limbs with the ease of shears parting paper._

I am Justice, _he told himself as the world went dark, and he forgot who he was and why he was still fighting. _I am Justice, I am Justice, I am...

_Though he didn't remember their meaning, he couldn't help but notice that the words he recited so faithfully sounded empty and hollow._


	9. Chapter 9

Two dozen of the Nova Empire's finest pilots, warriors and killers bustled around the hangar, making last-minute preparations for the mission ahead. The chase could last half a day or half a year, as long as it took for them to complete their mission.

Although his every request had been granted, Rhomann Dey hoped that they could finish the job quickly, using a minimum of ammunition. And while he would never admit it to anyone under his command, he was…_uneasy_ about the mission ahead. Not only would they be leaving the Infinity Stone more vulnerable to Thanos, they would be abandoning their people in a time of need. They would be facing the monster who was the cause of all of Xandar's suffering and loss since the end of the war.

He still wasn't entirely sure how they'd confirmed that the warning came from Ronan, though it probably involved a positive match on a facial or voice recognition scan. Dey had recognized Ronan too, but not because of the shape of his face or the timbre of his voice. Xandar had been plagued by images of the Kree's merciless, tribally marked features for over a year before the attack as he burned planet after planet, decimating small worlds at the outer reaches of the Nova Empire. His face wasn't exactly a secret, though the Kree had never been seen in public without the painted mask of his station.

But the man on the screen hadn't _looked_ like the Ronan from any official broadcasts, and not only because he'd washed off that disgusting paint. Instead, his face had been drawn and almost skeletal, as if he'd had far less food than a Kree needed over the past year. His voice hadn't been a fraction as commanding or powerful as Dey remembered from the day of the attack (sometimes in his nightmares). Instead, Ronan had sounded hoarse and halting, as if speech was something he was learning again after a long time of it being discouraged.

And yet…there had been an intensity in his eyes, a certain determination that Dey couldn't help but recognize, though he'd never met Ronan face to face. The spark of insanity and bottomless hatred he'd seen on the screen, directed entirely at them had also set off major alarm bells. How the bastard had managed to escape and make it all the way to Xandar in his condition was still a mystery, not to mention the reason why he'd risked everything to warn them in the first place.

Only a year ago, Ronan would have gladly given his life to watch Xandar burn.

Dey was okay with leaving those questions to the Nova Corp's master interrogators, who would have their work cut out for them very soon. All he needed to concern himself with was catching the son of a bitch (who just happened to be one of the most accomplished killers in the galaxy).

Everything would be fine_ – _he had top men, after all.

Everything would be _fine._

"Sir," his second-in-command said to him, pulling him abruptly from his trance, "The entire squad's assembled and ready. We're awaiting your instructions."

Dey nodded, his eyes scanning the faces in front of him as he searched for the right words. He was looking at young pilots only a few years out of basic and seasoned veterans with a dozen battle scars and a thousand stories. There were both decorated heroes and ruthless, profit-driven mercenaries standing before him, all united by a single purpose.

He saw his closest friends and complete strangers. There were grieving fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, and grandparents – each man and woman standing in front of him had lost someone to Ronan, from his hand or indirectly.

Despite their differences, their shared history made them brothers in arms. What group was better qualified to deliver justice on behalf of the galaxy?

Dey made sure to meet each pilot's eyes as he signed what could be their death warrant.

"Let's cut to the chase – we all know why we're here. We all understand the risks," he began, unable to stop his mind from wandering back to his own loved ones, safely evacuated from the capital just moments before their street was burned to ashes.

"Some of us may never come back. If Ronan is working with Thanos and the Chitauri, chances are that a lot of us may never come back. This could be the last time I see you all here, standing in front of me."

He took the time to read each pilot's face, seeing nothing but acceptance and determination reflected back at him. Perhaps they weren't as afraid as he was, or maybe they simply didn't have as much to lose.

Or maybe they had far more to lose. Was he qualified to be their commander? Was his uncertainty an indication of weakness, a sign that he would be better replaced by one of the men or women who were trusting him to lead them?

But as he spoke again his words came out strong and clear, as if inspired by something far greater than himself.

"Those risks aside, there's no place I'd rather be than here with my fellow soldiers. Though we're all eager to kill some Chitauri, we've received word that one of the _true_ culprits has gone unpunished.

"As you all know, one year ago yesterday our world, our species, our _civilization _was in similar danger from this monster, the murderer of millions of our people. Ronan wanted to wipe our culture from existence, to erase Xandar from the galaxy's memory. He didn't try to accomplish that destruction by toppling our tallest buildings or burning our monuments – instead, he tried to tear us apart by taking what we cherish most. Our wives, our husbands, our sisters and brothers. Our parents, our friends, and our neighbors. Our _children," _Dey finished, thinking of his own daughter and how close she had come to being just another name chiseled in granite in the capital.

He could see ghosts of that same despair in the others' faces; perhaps their families hadn't been as fortunate as his was, a year ago and now. But what they did here today would ensure that no other family on Xandar would suffer that same tragedy again.

"He _tried_ to break us," Dey pressed on, half-shouting as his men nodded and called out in agreement. "But he forgot one very important thing."

His team was watching him intently, riveted by his every word. Dey paused for emphasis, breathing in righteousness and power as he found a rallying cry from deep within.

"Our loved ones are not our weakness – they are our _strength_, even if they're no longer with us. And we'll stop at nothing to honor their memory and bring justice – _true_ justice – to anyone who would harm them. Ronan thought he could crush Xandar's spirit, but we're still here to fight. And now's our chance to show him just how wrong he was."

A cheer rose up from the hangar, echoing off the metal walls and seeming to amplify a hundredfold with new each voice that joined in the war cry. Dey basked the sound, the promise of justice for his murdered people.

Ronan would answer for his crimes - they would make sure of it, or they would die trying. And Dey had a few very good hunches about where they would begin looking.

* * *

><p>"You're both <em>insane,"<em> Peter lamented, pacing back and forth as they waited for the doctor to finish tending to Drax in the next room. Go figure, he'd had just about two hours of great sleep before he'd woken to the sound of Ronan kicking furiously at the hull of the ship from outside, demanding to be let in.

Lo and behold, Drax had been lying semi-conscious in the dirt beside the shackled Kree. He'd looked almost as blue as their prisoner and had been shaking so hard that he was nearly convulsing. It didn't take a mathematician to put two and two together. Drax had tried to avenge his family before he realized just how cute and cuddly Ronan was without his black death paint, then changed his mind.

From the looks of both of them, Drax had tried to dispose of his enemy by taking the Kree up to the outer limits of Knowhere and flinging him off the edge into space. Peter was relieved that Drax didn't end up going through with it, he really was – only, he kind of wished that Drax hadn't stunned him on purpose and kidnapped Ronan just hours after agreeing to let the Kree stay onboard. He was also kind of pissed that Drax didn't take any precautions before waltzing out into subzero space like it was a pleasant spring day on Xandar.

He'd rushed to call his sometimes doctor in, a guy who had patched him up dozens of times completely off the record. Dr. Andarri was great for health emergencies caused by questionable circumstances, but he didn't work for free – not by a long shot.

"Completely murderous and psychotic, both of you," Peter sighed again, glancing back at the four unlikely companions waiting alongside him. Gamora was staring at the carpet, lost in thought, and Peter knew that Drax would be facing some pointed questions when he woke up. Groot was occupying the chair next to Rocket, watching over the manic raccoon closely as he studied Ronan's collar with a fascination that only a tech geek could muster. He documented the torture device from all angles, taking snapshots and occasionally pulling out a handheld scanner to get more detailed readings of god only knew what.

As for the Accuser himself, Ronan was sitting slumped over in an uncomfortable metal folding chair, staring straight ahead with a dazed, distant look in his eyes. He absently answered Rocket's questions about the collar whenever the raccoon shouted in his ear, anxious about Drax and impatient with having to repeat himself. Ronan didn't seem to be in shock from the cold, at least not nearly as sick as Drax had been by the time the two had returned to the _Milano._ Still, they would have him examined all the same – besides exposure to subzero temperatures, Ronan wasn't exactly in great health.

Peter could understand Groot's wariness about the scene unfolding next to him. Rocket wasn't exactly Ronan's biggest fan, though he was temporarily putting his hatred aside to distract himself from Drax. And Ronan…while the Kree wasn't in danger now, Peter sensed that something was eating away at him. He wondered again how his confrontation with Drax had unfolded, and what had changed the Destroyer's mind.

The door slid open and Dr. Andarri stepped into the room, giving Peter a reassuring nod.

"Your friend will be just fine," the Luphomoid confirmed, tossing his plastic gloves into the garbage can by the pilot's chair. "I have his body temperature stabilized again, but he'll need to stay completely _out of commission _for the next twenty-four hours, at a minimum. He's strong, but we still need to give his body time to adjust."

Peter sighed in relief, feeling as if a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"Can we see him now?" Rocket asked eagerly, looking away from Ronan as he learned that Drax was in the clear.

"Do whatever you want," Andarri sighed in barely concealed exasperation, "but I would recommend allowing only one visitor at a time, and _trying_ not to wake him. His system can't handle any additional stress or shock right now."

"Got it," Peter nodded, watching as Rocket headed for the door, determined to see Drax as soon as possible.

Peter pulled the doctor aside, shooting a glance at Ronan, who was still stuck in his usual gloomy, death metal funk. The collar seemed to gleam for a moment in the artificial light, an eerie reminder of exactly whom the Kree had escaped.

The force that was still looming behind them, growing stronger and more powerful by the day.

"I know what this looks like," Peter urged the doctor quietly, "but it's a long story, and there are some things I'd rather not explain. But just…know that we have his best interests in mind. We didn't do this to him."

Andarri's eyes ran clinically over Ronan, from his emaciated appearance to the shackles binding his wrists, finally stopping at the exotic-looking collar around his neck.

"Do you take me for a fool?" The doctor hissed, his eyes steely and cold. "Do you expect me to believe that he's some ordinary slave you rescued from the back of a cargo ship? A blue Kree of his status wouldn't go missing quietly without retribution from his government."

"Errmmm," Peter muttered, desperately thinking of a plausible story that would involve the successful kidnapping of a Kree noble. He'd forgotten just how astute his doctor could be. "He hasn't talked to us much because he doesn't trust us yet. But I get the impression that this all involved some pretty intense blackmail by his captors."

"Blackmail?" Andarri repeated, raising an eyebrow. "From whom? Thanos, perhaps?"

_Well, shit. _He certainly hadn't expected the dude to make _that _connection. Now Peter was wondering whether he would have to kill his doctor. That, or shove him in some spidery closet on the _Milano_ until Thanos was dead. But he really didn't want to have to do either of those things.

"How did you know?" He asked warily, not even bothering to deny the suggestion. If Andarri suspected that Ronan the Accuser was traveling with them, there wouldn't be any convincing him otherwise – the only question was which interested parties he would tell.

A lot of people would try to capture Ronan if they knew that he was alive, and almost all of them could pay Andarri far more than they could. If Peter couldn't guarantee his silence, then -

"It's simply a hunch," the doctor replied quietly, a small, bitter smile twisting his lips. "Thanos destroyed my planet simply to fuel his obsession with death. I can only imagine what he would do to someone who failed to deliver what he promised."

"Then we all have a common enemy," Peter urged, noticing Gamora's head shift in their direction out of the corner of his eye. Her enhanced hearing no doubt meant that she was catching every word of the conversation.

"We think that we can use him and what he knows, and he seems to be cooperating with us. But in order to do that, we have to be sure that he won't keel over dead at any moment. I tried to patch him up, but I'm no doctor. Please," Peter whispered, breaking out his most pathetic set of puppy dog eyes, "could you just look him over and tell me what's up? He had nothing to do with the destruction of your planet."

"Fine," Andarri muttered, narrowing his dark eyes. "Although I think you're fools not to simply hand him over to the Xandarians, I maintain strict confidentiality for all of my patients - provided, of course, that I am paid."

"Right," Peter said quickly. "We'll get right on that, don't worry. I have units, I have enough fuel to last you for months –"

"We'll discuss payment later," the doctor said coolly, approaching Ronan and waving his fingers in front of his dazed eyes, guiding the Kree into the makeshift examining room where Drax was resting.

"Hey, Ronan buddy," Peter called, realizing that it wasn't the best idea to leave Ronan alone with someone who was probably thinking of selling them out. "If you need company, I'll be happy to sit in with you."

Ronan just looked back at him like a deer in headlights on Earth, still too dazed to respond fully to the question. All the more reason not to leave him alone with the doctor, as far as Peter was concerned.

"Great!" Peter exclaimed as Andarri sighed in exasperation, following the Luphomoid and the Kree into what used to be their living room, of sorts. It was currently loaded up with medical equipment, and an unconscious Drax was lying on the sofa wrapped up in sterile hospital blankets. Poor guy – Peter couldn't really be ticked with him when he looked like that.

Right before the door closed, Peter met Gamora's eyes, getting a strong _Oh fuck don't tell me I have to clean up your mess again Quill_ vibe from the split-second glance. He shrugged helplessly and joined the doctor, his patients and Rocket in the room, moving to Ronan's side as Andarri guided him to the portable examining table he'd brought. The Kree's hands were shaking, the tremors almost too fine to be seen, and Peter couldn't help but notice the haunted look in his eyes.

He reached out and covered Ronan's fingers with his own, smoothing the tremors away.

* * *

><p><em>"Thirty-two fractured bones, and ten have fused out of place. That'll require advanced surgery and weeks of bone regrowth –"<em>

_"Shit… How is he still able to stand?"_

_"That's a mystery to me as well…it appears he's one especially stubborn bastard."_

Ronan stared straight ahead, vaguely aware of the fact that they were discussing him – Peter Quill and his Luphomoid doctor of questionable legality. From time to time he tuned in to catch snatches of diagnostic terms and Quill's strange exclamations of shock and concern. He tuned out almost immediately whenever he heard something new, unable to summon up the energy to worry about it. He was broken, he knew that – and he knew that he would probably never be exactly as he was before Thanos tortured him.

He had accepted that months ago on the barren, dying wastelands that stretched across the Titan's realm. Even if his body healed completely, leaving no trace of a scar, his mind would carry the marks until the day he died.

Right then, he was lost in the fog that drifted over the planes of his mind, moving through every dip and valley and making his heart beat in a cold, precise rhythm of dread.

Something wasn't right – something about his perception was…_off._ The lines of the entire room seemed warped and skewed, and the shadows seemed to extend far beyond their limits, reaching out to cover them all. Perhaps the chill of space had affected him more than he thought, but Ronan didn't think it was because of that.

It wasn't even because he'd forced himself to admit that his murders of Drax's people were unjust – criminal even, if one applied the Kree legal code using the standard, looser interpretation. At one point, such an admission would have been unthinkable. But over the past twenty-four hours, Ronan had accomplished the unthinkable many times.

**_The unthinkable? Only if you believe your own lies, boy. Do you truly think you're safe here? That you have a chance at achieving happiness ever again?_**

Ronan breathed in deeply, his heart racing as he tried to ignore the malicious whisper in his head. He wished that he could just write it off as his old madness, but unfortunately he knew exactly where the voice was coming from.

**_Comfortable and protected, surrounded by your watchful once-enemies. Before, they harnessed the most powerful force in the universe to scatter you across space. Now, they treat you like the family pet._**

_That's not true, _he thought back desperately, focusing his energy on remaining calm when all he wanted to do was push Star Lord away and slam his head against the table until the lying _(true, honest, correct)_ whispers were silenced. _They all despise me – nothing has changed._

**_But haven't you?_** The voice countered in twisted amusement. **_They see you as what you are now – a harmless, crippled burden. They would never have allowed you live if you were still strong. Now, they pity you. They see the way I made you _****mine.**

Ronan growled, shaking his head in denial, momentarily forgetting about Star Lord and the doctor. He could feel his fear and helpless rage fueling his master's sadism, as usual. What would Thanos do to punish him this time, since he couldn't break his bones from across space?

Could he?

Did he know how Ronan felt about –?

**_You are as foolish as they are if you believe you can ever defeat me. My knowledge spans eons, and my power is at the height of a summit you will never reach. Come back to me, boy, and I will show you mercy. I may even give you your old position back, after I make you _****beg.**

Ronan blinked as someone backhanded him sharply, the sudden sting silencing the whispers and forcing him back to reality. He looked up, frowning as he saw the black, pupil less eyes of the Luphomoid doctor. Nebula's eyes were that same boundless black, only colder. If she found him before he had the chance to fulfill his promise -

"Christ, why'd you hit him? Ronan? Ronan, buddy!"

He tilted his head and saw Star Lord standing next to him, concern written on his face. The Terran was still touching his hand, the warmth of his skin almost making the chill disappear. Nothing in the universe would ever erase that cold, but for now that warmth was enough to cling to.

It was enough.

"Are you okay? If you want to take a break, all you've got to do is ask."

"No," he answered firmly, his voice strong and clear for the first time in what seemed like ages. Even if they were all going to die, at least he would have the memory of that warmth in the dark days to come. "I'm better now. I'm _here."_

Quill nodded back, understanding in his eyes. The warmth of his hand was a silent, enduring comfort as Ronan forced himself to block out the doctor's clinical descriptions of his scars.

* * *

><p>The stars were bright tonight, and though the harsh artificial lights on Knowhere usually blocked out the night sky, Peter could see constellations that were normally only visible deeper in space.<p>

Rocket and Gamora had gone off, supposedly arranging a deal with a procurer who might be able tell them more about the collar. Groot and Andarri were watching over Drax on the _Milano_, making sure that his condition didn't get any worse. Groot was also watching over Andarri, making sure that the doctor didn't do anything that wasn't in their best interest, like calling the Nova Corps.

And here he and Ronan were…standing on a creaky metal walkway that served as a balcony, with the distant laughter, shouts, and cheers of the bars and gambling dens below them drifting through the air. He'd thought that a bit of air would be good for them, and for a certain Kree in particular. Though the doctor's prognosis for Ronan had been mostly positive, there was no denying that he had a long road of recovery ahead of him.

Right now, Peter was content to simply appreciate the night sky, but Ronan clearly wasn't used to enjoying the simple pleasures of life.

"Did you bring me out here for a reason, Quill?" The Accuser grumbled in irritation, scowling at Peter as he smiled back brightly. "Now that you've unbound me _again, _I doubt you stand half the chance of murdering me as that tattooed savage."

"I like Drax's tattoos," Peter shot back. "And for your information, Mr. Blue and Grumpy, Drax has picked up modern technology astonishingly fast. His suggestions for weapons upgrades surprise even Rocket sometimes."

Ronan snorted in obvious disbelief and looked back out over the cosmos, his eyes distant as he mapped the tiny pinpricks on light. Looking at him, Peter couldn't help but wonder what was going through his head. There was no doubt that Thanos was a constant source of anguish for him, even from light years away. It was bad enough that the Titan could torture him from across the galaxy, and worse that they shared a telepathic connection to boot.

Peter didn't know how to make that better, aside from helping to find a way to remove that collar. And even if they accomplished that, they would never be able to erase a year's worth of traumatic memories.

"Which planet is Hala?" he asked curiously, after following Ronan's line of sight to a small cluster of worlds barely visible to the naked eye. "Thanos hasn't made it there yet, right?"

"No," the Kree said darkly, though his face revealed how relieved he was. "If he had been there, we would know."

Ronan pointed and shared some details about the planet's appearance that Peter had no chance of spotting from so far away. Even so, he was satisfied. Ronan was smiling – genuinely smiling – for the first time Peter had seen him since…well, _ever._ It was a small smile, to be sure, but it was there.

"Assuming that we somehow survive Thanos, will you go back home?"

He didn't know why he was asking Ronan these types of personal questions, or where his deep-seated curiosity even came from. Still, he sort of _wanted_ to hear Ronan talk about his life and his past (minus the skull smashing, of course). It was weird, because the last time he'd felt this same interest had been with Gamora.

"I would_ like _to return," Ronan confessed, sighing in resignation, "but I'm not sure that's possible now. If I do go back, my life will be very different than before."

"Why? Assuming that we let you go, and don't get your hopes up yet, what's stopping you?"

From everything Peter had seen, Ronan loved his home (perhaps a bit too much, but hey). To have that connection be only a couple hours' travel away, and yet beyond one's reach…had to be awful. Peter could sympathize – if Earth was as close as the Kree worlds were, he would visit as often as he could.

"I am considered a traitor to my government and my people," the Accuser replied, his voice resigned and his smile gone. "Though I believed that I was faithfully enacting our laws, I broke the commands of the Kree Empire by disregarding the peace treaty with Xandar."

"Yeah, that was kind of a major misstep," Peter agreed as Ronan scowled at him. "So what would happen if you did go back?"

Ronan shrugged carelessly. "There's only one punishment for treason and mass murder, Quill. Unless I become an outlaw, I will be executed by one government or another. And I do not think the life of an outlaw would be well-suited to me."

Damn, that was sort of depressing. What struck Peter even more was that Ronan wasn't attempting to defend himself. He'd even referred to his multiple counts of murder as, well – _murder_, and not "Kree justice."

"What about you?" the Accuser countered, eager to change the subject. "Do you ever dream of home? Earth is quite far away, from what I've heard. Located in the Spiral Galaxy, further over there."

Ronan pointed out a spiral band of constellations that Peter and the people of Earth knew as the _Milky Way _galaxy. He had to admit that he was impressed, but more than that he had to stop himself from keeling over in laughter. Ronan "I do not _dance_" Accuser was a _stargazer._

Maybe the context was different on his planet, like necessary knowledge during military training or something. Still, Peter couldn't help but smile.

"My life's dream is to see Earth again," he replied. "Only thing is…I was kidnapped as a little kid. My mom was already gone, and my grandparents and other folks probably followed her not long after. Who would I be going back to? Besides…my species doesn't even _have _space travel. I've seen more than just about every other Terran in existence has seen, _ever. _I don't have a fancy Kree education like you…but still, I think I would feel like an outsider."

"I think you should still consider returning," Ronan suggested. "Otherwise, how will you ever know? When you are too old or otherwise incapable of making the tip, you will regret it."

"I guess you have a point," Peter conceded. "But I've still got _some_ ties to Earth."

The Accuser raised a curious eyebrow. "Such as?"

Peter pulled out his Walkman, which was loaded with the mix tape he'd started listening to shortly after Ronan's defeat. It was the last gift his mom had given him before…well, before she was gone.

"Some of my mom's favorite tunes," he said, smiling fondly as he ran his fingers over the scratched plastic casing. "Though I must have listened to these songs at least a hundred times each…they never get old. And that's not all!"

"Quill…please don't do what I think you're about to–"

Peter broke into dance as Ronan groaned in exasperation, doing one of the several Earth moves he still remembered – the Electric Slide. Ronan was giving him that signature look again – the "You disgust and bewilder me, pitiful Terran, though somehow I can't tear my eyes away from this train wreck" look.

It was so cute.

"Don't just stand there being a stick in the mud," Peter teased, dancing a circle around Ronan, who was looking back at him with wide, vaguely terrified eyes. "I know you're afraid of the awesomeness and sheer power of these moves. Let me teach you, so you never have to decline a dance off challenge again."

"These 'dance offs' you speak of…" Ronan answered after a long, baffled pause, "They are a common form of warfare on your planet?"

Peter snorted and had to stop himself from breaking into full-on laughter. If Ronan was in any way representative of his species, they all had to be such massive _squares._

"Sure, buddy," he replied as seriously as possible under the circumstances. "Learn to dance, and you'll never have to fear any Terran ever again. You'll be unstoppable!"

Ronan frowned in consideration, visibly weighing the risks and payoffs of making such a choice. His eyes were fixed on Peter's legs, wide violet irises following the Terran's every movement as if he was hypnotized.

Peter extended his hand, putting on his most reassuring smile. "Come on, Ronan. You'll do great – just let me share this with you."

The Accuser looked at him for one last long, lingering moment, and Peter's pulse raced in his ears as he waited for Ronan to make his choice. To accept his hand – to accept _him_ – or to reject - to reject…

Peter watched as their fingers linked, and his heart soared in a profound, pure and fully unexpected joy.

"Okay, I know your bones are still sore so we're gonna start off simple," he instructed, grinning ear to ear. "Let's try a grapevine - a move like that should be doable if you're already standing."

"Will it help me slay my enemies?"

"For _sure_, bro!"


	10. Chapter 10

As soon as she heard the familiar swish of the _Milano's_ hatch opening, Gamora emerged from the shadows like the former assassin she was. Dr. Andarri flinched, swearing under his breath as he realized that his stealth exit had been ruined by the person he least wanted to interact with on this call.

"In a hurry?" Gamora's tone was deliberately cheerful, though her hand never strayed far from the concealed pistol at her waist. Dr. Andarri was armed, too, she noticed – a sidearm under his doctor's coat (all too easy to spot) and a second gun tucked into his boot (for some reason, they always thought that was an amazing hiding place). His hand had definitely twitched in the direction of that first gun, but he wasn't a killer by trade – his reflexes weren't conditioned enough to draw and aim on a split second's notice.

"You should stay for dinner! Quill said he might try to make Xandarian spice noodles. His cooking actually isn't bad – but I suppose life offers up new surprises every day."

"I have other patients to attend to," the doctor said hurriedly, subconsciously clutching his bag tighter. "I've left medicine and care instructions for both Drax and your…blue friend. So if you will excuse me, I must –"

He started to brush past her, only to freeze as he felt the cold barrel of a pistol press against the back of his neck.

"Slow down," Gamora cajoled, "We haven't even paid you yet, have we? And kindly place your weapons on the ground in front of you. Both the one at your waist _and_ the one in your boot. Then I would _appreciate_ it if you kicked them a few feet away."

To his credit, Dr. Andarri didn't bother to deny that he was armed, proclaim his innocence, or otherwise stall for time. He simply followed Gamora's instructions and looked ahead at the unconcerned passersby, who quickly averted their eyes as they saw the identity of woman holding him captive.

"That was unnecessary," Andarri said calmly, though his quickening heartbeat told a different story. "I have no intention of informing the Nova Corps of Ronan's whereabouts. It would mean the end of my career – my clients hire me because I am discreet."

"The end of a career might not sound so terrible if you can collect a bounty of millions of units," Gamora pointed out. "Drop the bag and open it for me, if you would. I need to have a look inside. If it's clean, I'll let you go."

The doctor sighed but knelt down and followed her instructions, his DNA making the locks on his bag click open automatically. Gamora peered inside, seeing an array of standard-looking medical items – gauze, scalpels, needles and syringes, common medications, diagnostic scanners, dermal regenerators and some other equipment she didn't recognize.

There was something else, too – a small vial tucked carefully into the nook of one of the refrigerated compartments, filled with a murky black liquid. Having spent years fighting alongside Ronan, Gamora recognized the substance for what it was – Kree blood.

"What did you need this for?" she asked, frowning and snatching up the vial as Andarri visibly paled. "Was there some blood work he needed done that you never mentioned?"

"I was not planning to betray you," the doctor repeated, his tone low and urgent. "Again, if I wanted to contact the Nova Corps and collect a bounty, I would have done so yesterday."

"That might make sense, _if _the Nova Corps were the only people who wanted Ronan for themselves," Gamora argued back. "But there are _many _parties who would pay double that – triple, even – for a chance to tear him apart. But not all of them would be willing to travel across the galaxy based on a rumor – at least, not without some proof of his identity."

She shook the vial, watching the dark blood congeal inside the glass.

"I can't just let you walk away with that proof."

Andarri looked back at her, his wide black eyes not quite revealing the entire story. Gamora couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia as she looked at him; though he was much older than her sister and not nearly as scarred, they were still of the same species. There had to be less than five thousand Luphomoids left in the entire galaxy, and she was speaking with one of them.

The doctor studied her face, thinking carefully before he offered up his explanation.

"I was not planning to _sell _it," he said slowly, "I want to study his blood for myself. Ronan presents a unique opportunity, one that medicine might never see again."

"An _opportunity?"_ Gamora repeated, puzzled and suspicious. "An opportunity for what? Ronan is just an ordinary blue Kree. One of the strongest Kree, sure, but his DNA shouldn't be unlike anything that medicine has ever seen before."

"Normally, I would agree," Andarri said quickly, his voice almost pleading with her. "But he was killed a year ago – completely _obliterated -_ and all sources agree on that. And now he appears again with you, just as Thanos begins his pursuit of the Infinity Stone. If Thanos truly brought him back to life from nothing, and I can discover _how _from his blood…just imagine –"

Gamora nodded in understanding, one again at the crossroads of two separate, winding paths, just as when she lied to defend Ronan from the wrath of Nova Prime. She could see the doctor's sincerity, and she definitely understood his need to know how Thanos wielded his terrible power. But while Andarri was simply trying to fight in the best way he could, she still couldn't allow him to leave with Ronan's blood and DNA.

The Kree had made far more enemies than were healthy in his relatively short career.

"I can see that you're telling the truth," she sighed, dropping the vial into the dirt and grinding the glass to pieces beneath her heel. "So I'm truly sorry about this."

* * *

><p>"Ta-daaaaa!" Peter announced cheerfully, setting down the hot, steaming bowl of Xandarian spice noodles with relish. The ship was flying on autopilot, set on course for a small system in one of the darker corners of the galaxy. Once they exited hyperspace, Peter would have to be on guard in the air at all times. Not to mention how careful they would have to be after they landed.<p>

But for now, there was no reason why he couldn't force Gamora and Rocket to taste his cooking. He'd offered some noodles to Groot, too, though he still wasn't sure if the guy actually had taste buds. He'd never asked, but Groot always seemed to enjoy their food, so maybe….?

Drax was still resting, but Peter could bring him dinner later. And as for their guest, the sullen Kree with some surprisingly killer dance moves…Peter had coaxed him to sit at the small table with the others as he nursed a nutrient shake. Normally, he would consider such an action cruel, akin to rubbing it in Ronan's face that he still couldn't eat healthy people food, and wouldn't be able to for a while yet.

But since this was _Xandarian _cuisine, he was pretty sure that Ronan would refuse to touch it anyway. Since he'd tried to wipe their civilization from the face of the galaxy last year, and all. _That_ small matter.

They each loaded up their plates and began eating (and Ronan started to sip his shake). Aside from the clink of silverware on ceramic, the room was as silent as a tomb. Peter cleared his throat awkwardly as he saw Rocket glare at Ronan in undisguised loathing, and the Kree's haughty glare in response. The raccoon's hand never strayed far from the gun strapped to his chest, and Ronan almost seemed to be _challenging _him with his eyes. Gamora looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but there, but she knew that Peter had insisted on this sadistic dinner for a reason.

"Spit it out, Quill," she said finally, giving into the frustration that was crackling through the room like a million charged volts of electricity. "Tell us your thoughts about meeting this guy."

They were on their way to speak with the possible manufacturer of Ronan's collar. Gamora and Rocket had bribed a name and a location out of the procurer they'd met on Knowhere earlier that day, along with a healthy dose of intimidation to ensure that their contact didn't turn on them. Though they couldn't be entirely certain that they weren't wandering into a trap, the details their contact had supplied them with gave them every reason to believe it was a good lead.

"Aren't we forgetting something?" Peter asked eagerly, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "There's a more important issue at hand. What do you guys think?"

"The grub's all right, Quill," Rocket said with his mouth full, temporarily putting his glaring contest with Ronan on hold.

"It…is pleasant enough," Gamora agreed stiffly, still not used to giving compliments or actually tasting a home-cooked meal. Thanos wasn't much of an adoptive father and even less of a chef, from the impression Peter got. "Thank you, Quill."

"I am Groot," Groot chimed in politely.

Ronan simply stared blankly at them as Peter practically glowed from the positive feedback, and took another tentative sip of his shake. Peter wondered if the smell was affecting the Kree at all, or if he was so conditioned to hate everything Xandarian that even spice noodles seemed gross.

The truth was that Peter didn't especially enjoy cooking, even though nobody ever expected him to cook here. As a kid, he'd had to contend with the constant threat of being eaten by Yondu's men. Even though Yondu was usually able to keep the others in line, the possibility had always existed that one of them would go rogue and kidnap him, taking him off to some terrible fate.

One of the main reasons (among several) why Peter believed he'd survived to adulthood was all the work he'd put in to convincing Yondu's guys that the food he cooked tasted better than he did. Cooking brought up painful memories, but he still felt compelled to do it sometimes nonetheless.

"Thanks, guys," he responded, unaware that his smile revealed the slightest hint of sadness to anyone who knew him well enough to look for it. Gamora definitely saw it, and so did Rocket. Groot had probably been hanging around him long enough to catch on. And Ronan…Ronan simply watched him curiously, as if he was a vexing puzzle or the answer to a question he'd never asked.

"What did this outlaw have to say?" the Accuser asked after a pause, changing the subject as Rocket rolled his eyes. "And how can you be sure that he isn't leading us into a trap? He is a thief."

"Technically, he's a procurer," Gamora sighed. "And there's no way to be sureof _anything_ in this game," she reminded him. "We're standing against Thanos, who wins almost all of his loyalty by playing off people's fear and greed. If I had to take a guess now, I'd say that the maker of that collar was motivated by fear. If he was interested only in money or power, he'd be selling that tech to any or all of the wealthier slave planets."

"So one way of making him talk is to ensure that he fears us more than he fears Thanos," Ronan reasoned, a fleeting but profound shadow crossing his face like a solar eclipse before his features smoothed out again. Peter shivered slightly to himself, not entirely sure what to think of the steely resolve in Ronan's eyes that promised untold pain and bloodshed.

While Xenthos, the collar's alleged creator made his living by helping total dicks like Thanos abuse and enslave people…the look in Ronan's eyes was pretty damn scary and foretold nothing good.

Gamora must have caught it too, and she met his eyes, communicating her unease without words. They knew each other now well enough for that.

_Do you mean to trust him with this? _She seemed to ask him. _You haven't fought beside him. You don't know what he's capable of yet._

Perhaps it would be best to leave him on the ship until the interrogation was over, and yet…Peter _wanted _to trust Ronan. Maybe it was naïve, but he really, truly did, and he couldn't help but feel as if this particular part of their mission was more of Ronan's fight than anyone else's.

Peter was just glad that he was no longer on the receiving end of the Kree's death glare (the scary one – not the cute one).

_That's an accomplishment all by itself, _Peter reminded himself, something in his chest stirring unexpectedly as he looked at the Kree. _And even Drax decided to give him a second chance yesterday. Maybe…just maybe…_

"What are your plans for this mission, Peter Quill?"

Ronan's violet gaze was intense, and it was fixed on him with singular focus and attention. Peter thought he could see empires falling and burning in those depths, and a brilliant purple light cleaving fire away from the stars themselves. There was certainly darkness there, and terrible destruction. And yet…Peter also saw trust and the beginning of camaraderie. There was a grudging gratitude, and also a promise of…of…

_(something __**more**__)_

He realized that he was staring, completely mesmerized as he heard Gamora cough softly into her hand. He met his friend's eyes, his jaw slack as he took in her raised eyebrows and knowing expression. And if he wasn't mistaken, he thought he could see a hint of something else there – jealousy? Could it be?

_Oh fuck, _Peter thought, the realization hitting him with the force of a steel bar to the back of the head. _Oh shit. This has gotta be a mistake, or a terrible misunderstanding. No fucking __**way**__._

It had to be, because having a crush on Ronan the Accuser would make things a hell of a lot more complicated.

* * *

><p>Peter's fingers shook slightly as he picked through his personal weapons stash, holstering the items he thought would be best suited for the mission ahead. A stun gun. A real gun. Rappelling cords and magnetic inserts for his shoes that could be useful if he had to scale any walls or fences. His signature mask, which would help him breathe under even the most punishing conditions.<p>

He could feel Ronan's eyes on his back, and the Kree's unabashed staring made things all the more awkward. It would be bad enough having to tell Ronan that _yeah, you can participate today but only as an unarmed spectator, because we sure as hell don't fully trust you yet. _It would be even worse sharing a bedroom with him when he harbored this unexplained and fully disturbing attraction to the Kree. And there was also the possibility that made him break into a cold sweat at the thought – what if Ronan _knew?_

He wasn't so sure about that, actually – Ronan sort of struck him as the oblivious type in all things that had to do with attraction and sex. Married to the job, and all. Besides, the guy had been brutally traumatized by Thanos in that arena for the past year. Something as banal as a crush probably wasn't even on his radar, and may have never been at any point in his life.

At the same time…some of the _looks _Ronan had been giving him recently called those conclusions into question. And now they were alone in his bedroom. _And_ Ronan wasn't wearing a shirt. Why had he taken his shirt off, again? Peter couldn't remember – the Kree might have mentioned (or rather, demanded) a protective vest, because "fighting without some form of armor is the height of folly, Star Lord."

That sly, grammatically adept bastard.

_Damn, my life is __**soooo**__ hard, _Peter lamented._ What am I going to do now? The guy's a mass murderer, for fuck's sake, even if he looks like he's been carved from blue granite. And those eyes! But he killed Drax's family, and he's still sort of a dick. I mean, if I looked like that I'd probably be a pompous prick too, but - _

"You think too much, Terran. And yet you still do not take what you _want."_

A deep, raspy voice only inches from his ear. Peter jumped about three feet into the air and spun around, half-raising the gun he was clipping to his belt before he realized that pointing a weapon in a traumatized super being's face would probably _not_ be good for his health.

Ronan's face was inches away from his own, and Peter's breath caught in his throat as he saw that same curious gleam there as earlier, only burning with a far greater intensity. Ronan's hands were resting against the wall by Peter's shoulders, boxing him in, and their chests were almost touching. Up close, Peter could see the breathtaking patterns lining the Kree's irises in vivid detail, as well as the dozens of raised veins sprinkled across his azure skin.

It was captivating, and he almost forgot to be afraid. Peter had heard rumors that some Kree women could bend the mind of any male to their will. He wasn't sure if that was true (the few Kree chicks he'd been with hadn't seemed fundamentally different from any other female). And while Ronan was definitely no female, Peter now wondered if that ability could skip genders.

His fingers inched carefully for the tiny button on the wrist guard of his opposite arm. If he pressed it, ropes of energy would shoot out and deliver a sizzling shock to anyone within a fifteen foot radius. Ronan totally deserved it for creeping on him, yet Peter found himself frozen in the moment, his numb brain incapable of deciding on the proper course of action.

"Hey, bro," he said uneasily instead, his heart racing faster than a Nova cruiser (and not just from fear). "How are you doing? Ya know what," he babbled, the words spilling past his lips clumsily, devoid of logic and structure. "Personal space," he concluded. "That _is _a thing. Maybe not for a scion of the glorious Kree Empire, but for us lesser mortals, we sort of appreciate –"

Ronan's lips twisted into a decidedly cruel (yet aggravatingly sexy) smirk. He'd started leaning in even closer as Peter babbled incoherently, and the Terran could see every fading scar dotting his dark lips. _Thanos' marks._

_"And_ you talk too much," the Kree whispered hoarsely, his arrogant words trailing off as he pressed his lips against Peter's with a surprising gentleness. The Terran froze, his body slack with utter shock for a few awkward seconds before his instincts took command.

He kissed Ronan back passionately, gasping slightly as the Kree pushed him flush against the wall. And _shit, _he was strong. Ronan's mouth was warm but his kisses were somewhat clumsy, somewhat hesitant, as if such an intimate action was not something he was used to or completely comfortable with. The Accuser was out of his normal element –intimacy as basic and necessary as kissing seemed to be uncharted territory for him.

Peter moaned at the realization, slowing down the pace of the kiss and concentrating on just holding Ronan, feeling his warmth, and memorizing the moment. The Accuser may have been rumored to smash skulls to pieces and bathe in the blood of his enemies, but for everything else, he was decidedly innocent. It was a bit awkward and unexpected, yet wholly refreshing. Plus there was the prospect of corrupting the uptight Kree, a task that made heat pool in Peter's stomach at the thought alone.

Ronan growled as Peter nipped his lower lip playfully, unsure whether to interpret the bite as an attack or as a tease. He grabbed the hem of Peter's shirt in response, shredding the fabric like tissue paper in one effortless motion.

The ripping noise seemed amplified to Peter's ears, and Ronan's impulsive action made his heart race, braced on a knife's edge between anticipation and anxiety. _Damn it, this is escalating too quickly. What in all the hells set him off…?_

His hands moved along the taller man's bare back, his instincts telling him to expect toned muscle and smooth skin. Instead, his fingers encountered layers of bandages and a column of protruding ribs. Peter frowned, his stomach turning as he recalled some of the things that Dr. Andarri had told him privately after Ronan's exam. The doctor had shared his pretty informed suspicions of exactly how Thanos had punished their guest (and after a career of healing the shadiest people in the galaxy, Peter trusted his opinion).

_Just what the heck are you __**doing**__, Quill? Ronan can't possibly be emotionally ready for this. Especially…especially with someone like me._

Peter froze, his kiss with Ronan faltering. The Accuser made a soft noise of frustration and pulled back, confusion written on his face. His black lips were slightly swollen and his cheeks were flushed.

"Why did you stop?" The Kree demanded. "We have not followed the mating through to completion."

_"_The _mating?" _Peter repeated incredulously, squirming out of Ronan's slack grip. "First of all, who _talks_ that way? Secondly, what gave you the idea that I wanted to _mate _with you? You were all about chopping me into tiny pieces a few days ago!"

"Certain things have changed," Ronan explained, frowning as he tried to piece together the sudden shift in the Terran's behavior. "I thought we had an understanding." The human had been kissing him back just seconds ago, hadn't he? Or had he misread a struggle as an unfamiliar intimate act?

"An understanding?" Peter repeated, fully aware that he was fucking everything up more, but somehow unable to control the words that came pouring out of his mouth. "You thought – you thought that I wanted to have _sex _with you? Just whendid I _ever_ give you that idea?"

The Kree's mouth fell open in confusion and indignation, as if Peter's denial offended him on some deeper level. "Do not play innocent with me, Peter Quill," he growled, taking a threatening step forward. "You have propositioned me multiple times, beginning with that absurd display on Xandar!"

"Whoa, slow down," Peter demanded, wondering how quickly Ronan would react if he had to pull out his stun gun. Probably instantaneously, judging by his reflexes. "You're taking about the _dancing?_ That…um…I hate to burst your bubble, but that was mainly a distraction, bro. A battle tactic, like I showed you earlier."

Ronan laughed in humorless disbelief. "Do you take me for a blind fool? I see how you look at me, Star Lord. And I have been a soldier since I could walk – long enough to know that dancing is _not _a form of warfare!"

_Well, shit_ – he'd figured out the intent behind that little fib. Now Peter felt even worse for leading him on.

"Okay, asshole, I find you attractive," Peter fumed, powerless before the hurt that the Accuser was desperately trying to hide, but which was starting to show on his features nonetheless. "How could I not? But I barely know you, and what I do know is from when we were enemies. Besides, we're fighting for the future of the galaxy here, and there's just no _time _for that right now. It's as simple as that."

Ronan tilted his head, reading Peter's face carefully instead of accepting his (partially true) explanation. The Terran shivered to himself – that violet gaze felt like a molecular scan.

After a few tense seconds, the Accuser must have found what he was looking for, because his shoulders slumped in dismay. He didn't even look angry anymore – just defeated, and ashamed.

"I understand, Peter Quill," the Kree whispered, picking up his shirt from the bed and heading for the door, looking utterly resigned. "I understand what it is now."

"Ronan?" Peter asked softly, reaching for the Kree's bare shoulder, only to have his hand shrugged off. "You understand what?"

"You _pity_ me," the Kree said hollowly as he stepped outside. His back was turned, and Peter couldn't see his face. "Perhaps you are right to do so." The door swished shut automatically, leaving Peter alone in the empty, silent room.

He knew that he should go after Ronan and offer him an apology, some comforting words, and definitely another hug. But his feet seemed to be glued to the floor, and the moment passed him by.

* * *

><p>"They suspected nothing? Or rather, <em>she <em>suspected nothing?"

A woman's voice, cold and commanding. But if one listened closely, she might be able to hear a hint of eagerness – or a trace of vulnerability.

"Your false sister is a woman of many talents, but subterfuge is not one of them. She completely misread my intent and accepted the fabrication I offered her with little resistance."

"She was always a fool," the young woman replied as dismissively as possible. "It will mean her doom. The tracking device has been placed?"

"As promised," the older man replied, his voice as cool and clinical as the manner in which he practiced his trade. "You should be able to track them to the accuracy of one meter from across the galaxy."

The young woman laughed in delight, yet was somehow unable to mask the desperation in the sound. "You have never made a very convincing doctor, cousin. But tell me – is the Kree suffering? I must know."

"Soon the madness will consume him," the doctor answered flippantly. "As is always the case with the wearers of those collars. Now, I believe we discussed payment? I have taken a considerable risk for you, cousin or not."

"Of course," the young woman agreed at once, her voice instantly becoming softer and more familiar, as if a dial was turned. But if one listened closely, she might be able to hear the poison dripping off each carefully chosen syllable. "You have earned payment, my dearest cousin. And you'll get the exact reward you deserve."

A short cry of surprise, then the sizzle of a blaster bolt searing its way through air – and flesh. The sound of an engine revving up before gravel and debris were scattered upon liftoff.

Then nothing at all, aside from the howling of the wind over the oppressive silence of the Void.


End file.
